


Catch You If I Can

by thisonegoes



Series: Across The Road [2]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Anal Sex, Bottom Zayn, First Time, Hand Jobs, M/M, Semi-Public Sex, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-07
Updated: 2014-11-07
Packaged: 2018-02-20 02:48:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 36,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2412188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisonegoes/pseuds/thisonegoes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As a new freshman, Zayn has a plan for college. This isn't high school. He's not a loser or a loner or an outcast. Not anymore.</p><p>AU where Zayn's a freshman, Harry's a senior, and lessons are learned.</p><p>A prequel to Don't Make It Bad.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Catch You If I Can

**Author's Note:**

  * For [StormDancer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/StormDancer/gifts).



> Izzy, this one's for you. I hope it's everything you wanted ;)
> 
> Thanks to my favorite girls for reading this over for me, numerous times, to help ease my mind. I read Fangirl forever ago and enjoyed certain dynamics, which inspired me a bit, as you'll see. I hope you all enjoy!

_First comes love..._

 

Zayn could kick himself at the moment, he really could. He wishes he could. It'd actually be welcomed, as he looks around again, fingers tightening on the straps of his backpack. It's brand new, black with a red stripe up the middle. His mom insisted he needed a new one, which he whined about in Target the day before, but ended up relenting, figuring everyone will want a fresh start as well, with new stuff.  
  
But he looks around and no one else has a new backpack, with fresh creases in the fabric from being shoved onto shelves for excitable new students. They all seemed to grab their bags from high school, old things with pen marks and white-out stains on the pockets. Zayn bites his lip, wondering if anyone notices his new backpack, and new shoes, if they all think he's trying too hard.  
  
It's weird, Zayn thinks, the fact that no one has new new _anything_ , like him. But no one else is alone like him, so apparently every instinct he had for college was wrong.  
  
Zayn's the only person in line alone. He glances to the guys behind him, all talking to their mothers easy as anything, already wearing a shit ton of Kansas apparel. The girl in front of him, with wavy black hair and a crooked smile, actually holds hands with her dad, not giving a shit, not caring what anyone thinks. Because no one really seems to notice, except Zayn, and no one certainly seems to care.  
  
Zayn told his parents he'd look like a loser if they came with him, instead just had them drop him off at the curb outside the dorms, and now he wishes he could call them. But that'd be even more pathetic, letting his mom see his anxiety getting to him five goddamn minutes into the semester, so he pulls at the black tshirt and jeans he's wearing, before gripping his new fucking backpack harder.  
  
Just then someone knocks into him, pretty hard. He's taller than Zayn, not by much, with slick brown hair parted on the side. He's got a freckle beneath his left eye and his cheeks are pink like he's been out in the sun. Zayn can feel himself staring too long, and his mind flashes to sophomore year when three seniors knocked him into his locker and gave him a bump on his head the size of a golfball. He winces, waiting for it, the slur or insult sure to follow.  
  
"Sorry, dude," the guy chuckles, clapping a hand on his shoulder, before walking faster towards the stairs.  
  
Zayn watches him wave at a few people, before nodding at him again, another silent sorry. He smiles at Zayn, even licks his bottom lip a little, as he disappears up the stairwell. Zayn wipes the sweat from his forehead. Every instinct he had for college was seriously wrong.  
  
Once he's to the front of the line, he wants nothing more than to escape to his new room. It's much too loud in the dorm lobby and he needs a minute to regroup and rethink his strategy for survival. He also needs to figure out who the guy was that bumped into him, what his name is, if they're on the same floor. Maybe he could be Zayn's friend, best friend, or study partner. Or better yet, maybe they could be the types of friends who jerk each other off in the shower, not that it's a fantasy Zayn's given much thought to over the summer.  
  
Or maybe they could go on a date, his first date. Zayn ponders it, but decides it's a thought even more pathetic than wanting to jerk off with a guy in the shower, so he shakes his head to focus.  
  
The girl at the desk, with long blond hair, wearing a bright blue polo and a name tag that says MELANIE!!!, asks his name, before handing him a large envelope. She explains that it has his class schedule, a map of the campus, information on his student ID card, a key to his mail box, and instructions on how to set up counseling, if he needs it.  
  
Zayn narrows his eyes. If his mom called ahead of time to tell them he might need someone to "talk it out with," he'll absolutely die.  
  
But Melanie just smiles, pushes the folder into his hands, and he backs off. Maybe they give every new student counseling info. Maybe every new student has the propensity to need help, what with college being overwhelming and scary.  
  
"Oh, and here is your new room key!" Melanie finishes, her bright smile wider than ever.  
  
Zayn looks down at the white card in his hand, with a black bar on the side, and a crisp blue KU in the center.  
  
"It's a credit card," he says, looking up at her.  
  
"It's your room key."  
  
"This isn't a key, it's a card."  
  
"Well, yes. It's like what hotels use, like your very own hotel room key. A key card!"  
  
Zayn stares at her.  
  
"Why would I want my key to be like a hotel key. This isn't a hotel. This is supposed to be my temporary 'house,' right? This isn't a key."  
  
Melanie tilts her head.  
  
"Yes. It's a card," Melanie nods, as if Zayn is slow. "All the dorm rooms have locks that read key cards now. It's safer. And you don't have to carry an annoying key ring! Just put it in your wallet!"  
  
She smiles bright again, only glancing behind Zayn for a brief moment, waiting for him to finally walk away.  
  
"But you gave me a key to my mailbox. An actual, physical key. That turns an actual, physical lock. So I'll still need a key ring. Because you gave me a key."  
  
Melanie rolls her eyes and ignores him after that, bypassing him entirely. She shifts her body to the side and quickly says hello to the kid behind Zayn, the kid's mother gently nudging him towards the elevator and away from the desk.  
  
So Zayn follows the movement and goes, picking up his two bags from the floor. He spends the entire elevator ride to the tenth floor thinking about how stupid it is to use key cards instead of keys. Keys are keys. Cards are cards. Since when is living in a hotel something to be desired?  
  
The piece of paper in his pocket, the one his mom told him not to lose no matter what, says his room is 1022, so he wanders down the hall past open doors, his eyes wide. There are boys playing football in the hallway, the oddly shaped ball flying past his ear, so he walks faster. There's music coming from the other end of the hall, a Playstation roaring from somewhere, and it's all so cliche, Zayn almost pukes.  
  
His door looks like any normal door, with a place to swipe his new key card like a fucking ATM. There are two pieces of paper haphazardly stuck to the door, probably by an RA, with ZAYN and LOUIS written in Sharpie. Zayn pushes it open harshly and finds the room empty except for two small beds against each wall, two build-in dressers in the corners, and two desks with uncomfortable desk chairs. It's all very clinical, with white cinderblock walls and a white linoleum floor. The window even has ugly white blinds going across it, the window overlooking the desolate plains of Kansas, hardly a view by any means.  
  
Zayn's right handed and likes things to be right, as opposed to wrong, so he throws his bags and backpack onto the right bed and sits on it. He reaches for his phone to send a quick text to his parents, and then to Doniya and Kayan, who like to think they're his second set of parents, to let them know he's checked in and sitting on his new bed, when the door flies open again, halfway shielding Zayn's body.  
  
"Did you text your sister yet?" a boy yells over his shoulder, as he bursts into the room like a stolen truck, holding a box.  
  
Zayn's eyes widen again, at the loudness of him. His Vans slap against the linoleum loudly, as he chews gum loudly, his loud voice carrying out into the hall. He's older, Zayn can tell immediately, a junior at least, with an assuredness to him that Zayn could never even dream to achieve this year. They're about the same height, but this guy with long light brown hair and tan skin, walks taller, broader, thicker. Tattoos up his arm, sweat pants he cut off the fabric of at the knees, a white tank top hanging off his chest.  
  
"Not yet," another boy shrugs as he waltzes in behind him, "but I will. Her roommates said we can't come over until later anyways, so I'll figure out what booze they want before we pick up Niall."  
  
Zayn sits still as stone, taking it in.  
  
The second boy is taller than the first, with wild hair and long limbs. Zayn vaguely thinks about the kid he knew in middle school, Kyle something, who never cut his hair because his dad said he didn't have to, and he always smelled a little bit like an old closet. Zayn wonders if this kid smells, too. He's gorgeous though, they both are, so maybe even if he does smell, Zayn will get used to it. Zayn read that people get used to smells after about twenty minutes or so, so maybe he's safe there.  
  
"If they make us buy that shitty wine again, I'll riot," the first boy laughs, setting his box on the other bed.  
  
"I like that wine."  
  
"Of course you do. You like anything with an alcohol content."  
  
"I don't like schnapps."  
  
"No one likes schnapps."  
  
They start laughing as the second boy throws a bag onto the bed alongside the box. Zayn notices his tight jeans, with a hole in the ass. Zayn can see his white briefs through it and his cheeks flush.  
  
They still haven't acknowledged him. Maybe they haven't noticed he's there. Maybe whichever of them is his roommate made a pact to never talk to him. Maybe they want Zayn to pretend like they don't exist either. Zayn almost pulls his legs up into himself, to make himself small like he used to when he was young.  
  
_No._  
  
Zayn shakes his head to snap himself out of it. He has a plan. He wrote the plan on the back of one of his favorite prints, the one he plans to hang on the wall above his bed. This isn't high school. He's not a loser or a loner or an outcast. Not anymore.  
  
_I do not have anxiety. I am cool. I am great. People want to know me. People want me to be their friend. I am bigger and better than ever._  
  
Zayn repeats it in his head twice before standing up to interrupt the steady flow of conversation happening in front of him.  
  
"Hey," he calls out, nodding.  
  
The two boys stop talking and turn to him, obviously surprised to see another person in the room.  
  
"Hey," the second boy smiles, his pink lips curving up and over his straight, white teeth, warming Zayn's stomach immediately.  
  
"So you're my roommate," the first boy nods, bringing his hands to his hips. "The freshman."  
  
"Uh, yeah. Zayn."  
  
"Louis."  
  
They shake hands.  
  
Zayn shifts his weight from one foot to the other, waiting for Louis to say anything else. Zayn decided over the summer to use his quiet nature to his advantage. His whole life, he's been quiet, reserved, shy. And it made people disregard him, overlook him, forget he was in the room. Sometimes he liked that, and other times he felt like he could disappear and no one would notice. But now, as an adult, as a man in college when so many of his high school peers couldn't even get into one, Zayn would be calm and collected, but on purpose. Silent, but deadly. Cool. The strong, silent type. Mysterious. It's his plan.  
  
So he looks at Louis and waits.  
  
"I'm gay," Louis shrugs.  
  
Zayn's eyes widen again, the cool exterior he wanted to hold on to already slipping out the window like smoke.  
  
"Okay."  
  
"I fuck dudes. Dudes fuck me. I'll do it right here in this bed, whenever I want to, and if that's a problem for you, you might as well go down to the lobby now and change rooms. I didn't want a roommate in the first place, I shouldn't even be in the dorms this year. So I don't have time for that shit."  
  
The second boy laughs then, squawks like a bird, before slapping his hand over his face.  
  
Zayn looks from one to the other. He's so fucking awkward. They probably already see right through him.  
  
"I'm Harry, by the way," the boy reaches out, shaking Zayn's hand. "And what Lou means to say is, as a confident homosexual man with needs and desires, he hopes you as his new roommate can handle his life choices."  
  
"That's not what I said," Louis shrugs again, his face softer as he looks at Harry.  
  
"Okay," Zayn nods at the two of them, understanding.  
  
They're boyfriends, clearly. And as Louis sizes Zayn up again, he might as well have a sign over his head that says Louis is older than Zayn and he's the boss. Harry rolls his eyes at Louis and tries to smile at Zayn, but Zayn doesn't react.  
  
They're boyfriends who want to fuck on Louis's bed, so they definitely won't want Zayn around much, it seems.  
  
Zayn looks at his small pile of belongings to unpack, since Doniya won't be able to bring the rest of his stuff for another day or two, thinking it makes sense to get his walls set first. Louis looks at him again, right as Zayn quickly puts in headphones to drown them out and grabs for a bag. Louis narrows his eyes slightly, as he turns around to shift the stuff on his bed to various drawers and surfaces. Harry helps him, the two of them chattering about the party at Harry's sister's house just off campus, the one sure to obliterate them both by midnight. Zayn keeps his music low so he can hear if they talk about him.  
  
They don't.  
  
Zayn read an article years ago about the best modern photographers in the business at the moment, and ever since, he's been collecting their work. He hangs up a portrait by Joe McNally first, of a woman with gorgeous eyes, her hands clasped in front of her chest. McNally traveled to South Africa for that set, and Zayn still gets a lump in his throat every time he looks closely at it. Then it's the Michael Muller photo sets, of the "Guardians of the Galaxy" cast, their expressions popping, colorful and bright. The Great White Shark set. The photo of Joseph Gordon Levitt in the brown bomber jacket that Zayn hates to admit gets him off on sleepless nights.  
  
He covers the entire wall next to his bed first, with photo after photo, portraits and landscapes and wildlife and Olympic swimmers, from McNally, Muller, Bunting, Aspland. He puts his favorite, the Peter Sanders set of Bob Dylan, The Rolling Stones, and Jimi Hendrix right above his desk, alongside Nabil's amazing modern shots of Frank Ocean and Kanye.  
  
He almost forgets the other Sanders prints he loves, from Makkah and Midinah, the gorgeous ones Zayn's dad told him made him cry the first time he saw them, so those go above his desk lamp.  
  
The last piece of the puzzle is Thorgerson's amazing Pink Floyd "Dark Side of the Moon" album artwork, from Zayn's all-time favorite album. Zayn steps back to admire his collage, a smile creeping on his face, as he realizes this clinical room that opens with a hotel key card may end up feeling like home after all. He grabs his Canon Rebel from his bag, the most precious thing he owns, and sets it on his desk just so, to admire the entire view.  
  
Just then, a hand grips his shoulder, scaring the ever living shit out of him. He jumps away and rips the headphones from his ears.  
  
Harry just smiles at him, with his hands up.  
  
"Sorry, didn't mean to scare you."  
  
"You didn't," Zayn shrugs, lying, nervous.  
  
"I like your pictures," Harry steps around him, getting closer, lifting a hand.  
  
"Don't touch them."  
  
"I won't."  
  
"You look like you're about to."  
  
"I won't."  
  
Zayn watches Harry, sees him get close to the photos near his desk.  
  
"Who are they by?"  
  
"A lot of people."  
  
Harry turns to him then. He had just had his face near the Sanders photos, the ones of the musicians Zayn loves, and narrows his eyes slightly.  
  
"You have quite a few musicians up here. You like Bob Dylan?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Sure you don't just like the picture?"  
  
"I'm sure."  
  
"What's your favorite Rolling Stones song then," Harry counters stepping away from Zayn, back towards Louis at his mirror, fixing his hair.  
  
It's Zayn's turn to narrow his eyes at Harry, at the challenge. Zayn should've known he'd be pretentious, with that stupid piece of fabric around his head and scuffed black boots that have to be on purpose. Harry's entire existence looks to be "on purpose," which Zayn hates, until he remembers he's actively trying to be mysterious on purpose. So he unclenches his hands, only slightly. This kid, Harry-something, makes him want to be brave, it seems.  
  
"'Ruby Tuesday.'"  
  
Harry nods, still not letting up.  
  
"Good choice. I love your Pink Floyd homage, as well," he crosses his arms. "Barrett's great in 'Dark Side of the Moon,' don't you think?"  
  
"Barrett was a founding member," Zayn crosses his own arms. "Left the band well before 'Dark Side.'"  
  
Harry laughs then, leans back with it, his hand falling to his belly, the other pointing right at him.  
  
"I think I like you, Zayn."  
  
Zayn feels his cheeks flush, way too quickly to be anything other than a childish blush. He has to turn away so these strangers can't see. He's supposed to be cool in college, not blushing over a guy saying nice, polite things to him.  
  
Louis starts to grab his keys and hat, steals a look at Zayn's side of the room and snorts. Harry nudges Louis's arm, eyes fierce.  
  
"It's a good look," Harry nods, eyes over Zayn's pictures, placating him.  
  
Zayn blinks, willing them to leave the room once and for all. He wants to be alone.  
  
"I guess," he tilts his chin down to stare at his feet, the bravery starting to slip, the longer he stands there in front of his pictures, like a child with magazine posters stuck together with Scotch tape.  
  
Louis grabs Harry then, two small hands gripping the flesh of Harry's barely-there ass, and whispers in his ear about the booze they plan to buy. They start laughing and shuffle towards the door. Zayn looks away, embarrassed to be staring, and grabs for his jeans in his second bag.  
  
"You want to come?"  
  
Zayn looks over his shoulder, at Harry's face and fingers peaking around the doorway, as an after thought. It's officially Zayn's first invite in college. The first time someone wants him to join, to belong, and it's by his new roommate's ridiculously attractive boyfriend because he feels sorry for him.  
  
"No, I'm busy tonight. Thanks though," Zayn says in a low voice, unsure and awkward, like he's fifteen again.  
  
Harry smiles at him.  
  
"Suit yourself, freshman. Just remember to speak up, yeah? All these people, they…" Harry scrunches his brow, searching for the words. "Well, they can't be blown away by you unless you make them."  
  
Zayn blinks twice.  
  
"It'll all work out," Harry finishes, fingers tugging at the door.  
  
In the end, he smiles and winks at Zayn. He's gone before Zayn can react, the door snapping shut too quickly, the room as silent as it was when Zayn arrived.

  
»»»

  
Zayn barely sleeps that first night, so Sunday is mostly spent napping in his new uncomfortable bed and trying to get used to his space.  
  
Louis never came back after his party, so his side of the room looks just as disheveled and unkempt as he left it, boxes on his bed, articles of clothing already bursting out of his little closet. Zayn eyes it as he puts his clothes away, again, in different drawers that seem to make more sense. Top drawer, underwear and socks; middle drawer, tshirts and random hoodies; bottom drawer, jeans and sweats.  
  
The top of his dresser is another story. Zayn can't decide if his deodorant and cologne should sit there, or behind the mirror above it. Louis shoved his in a drawer, Zayn noticed the night before, and the top of his dresser is empty. He didn't hang anything on the walls or give much thought to his desk space. Zayn feels it again, the plan slipping slightly.  Maybe decorating his side wasn't a good idea. It probably makes him look even more like a freshman than he feels.  
  
It all starts to make his head hurt, so he decides to put the pictures he took of his family in frames on his dresser, so it's not empty, and climbs back into his bed to sleep again.

  
»»»

  
Louis doesn't come back that night either, which is a good thing, because after texting Doniya for advice, Zayn decides Louis can go fuck himself. Zayn's let too many people laugh at him, and he's not letting that happen anymore. He's not going to let anyone walk all over him.  
  
_I do not have anxiety. I am cool. I am great. People want to know me. People want me to be their friend. I am bigger and better than ever._  
  
So he readies himself for the next day, looks himself up and down in the mirror as he wraps a towel around his waist. Tomorrow they'll see. He's going to blow them all away. He figures if he repeats the plan enough, it has to work out. That's what he tells himself, over and over, as he navigates his way down the hall.  
  
Zayn definitely likes having his room to himself, he decides after his first college shower in the shared bathroom on his floor. He had read that all new students should have a shower caddy and sandals to wear in the individual stalls, because _no shit,_ and as he stood under the harsh spray of lukewarm water, he could hear the squeaking of plastic shoes in the stall next to him. As he lathered his hair and rinsed, twice, the squeaking became more prominent. Zayn realized a half second later, once he heard the first moan, that some guy on his floor must have a girl in there with him.  
  
Zayn tried not to listen, he'd swear it under oath, but he couldn't help it. Some guys tend to be quiet when they're fucking, but whoever this guy is, with the loud shoes moving across the wet tile, groaned without a care in the world. Maybe she was blowing him. Maybe she had a hand around him, her mouth on his neck, and he couldn't keep quiet. Maybe he had her bent over. After the slapping of skin on skin (definitely fucking), Zayn had to. He briefly touched his achingly hard cock, a few tugs with one hand just to tide him over, the other on the wall, because it'd been days since he got off.  
  
So yeah, now that he's back in his room, with a towel around his waist and his cock begging to fuck into his fist, he very much likes the fact that he can be alone.  
  
That is, until the door bangs open and Harry strides in.  
  
"Fuck," Zayn hisses, holding his towel more firmly around himself.  
  
Harry hardly notices him, instead crossing to Louis's desk to rummage in a bag.  
  
"Don't mind me, just needed a few things," he waves a hand, back to Zayn.  
  
Zayn watches him move more stuff around, bent at the waist, the hole in his jeans showing red boxers underneath this time, humming. It's not something Zayn recognizes, and it annoys him to no end that Harry knows a song he doesn't. It also annoys him that his roommate's boyfriend has a nice ass, small, just right for a handful. He shouldn't be looking at Harry, his cheeks reddening, his cock harder than ever, so he pointedly looks up and over Harry's shoulder.  
  
Just then it dawns on him.  
  
"Wait, do you have a key to our room?"  
  
"I have a key _card_ to your room," Harry laughs, still not looking at Zayn.  
  
If Zayn weren't so angry, he'd appreciate Harry acknowledging the fact that they do not, in fact, have room keys, and instead have ridiculous hotel cards to open their doors. But he doesn't because Harry is in his way now, and he's still dripping wet in a towel, and it's sort of fucked up that Harry has a way to enter his room whenever he pleases.  
  
"Is that allowed?"  
  
Harry turns to him finally, a book and a beanie in his hand, with a smile on his face. It falters, slightly, as he takes in the scene in front of him, the fact that Zayn's in a towel and he's just noticed. Zayn turns his face so he won't see Harry looking at him, for fear of the jokes he could crack about Zayn's thin arms and skinny torso.  
  
Harry shakes his head a little, eyes traveling from Zayn's neck to the hands clasped around his towel, his right fist trying to hide his erection as best he can.  
  
"What?" he blinks, refocusing on Zayn's eyes.  
  
"I asked if that's allowed," Zayn glances at him, still embarrassed, but gaining steam. "Are you allowed to have a key?"  
  
Harry smiles again. Like it's his birthday and Christmas on the same day.  
  
"Oh, freshman. You're adorable."  
  
Zayn almost drops it. He really almost lets it go, shuts his mouth, as Harry walks towards the door to leave. But then he remembers his plan and the person he swore to be in college and lifts his chin. He wants to be brave again, with Harry. Harry practically told him to be, the night they met.  
  
"No."  
  
Harry stops to look at him, his face unreadable.  
  
"What?"  
  
"I don't like you having a key. This is my room, too. And I don't think that's fair."  
  
"But Louis - "  
  
"No."  
  
Harry stares at him for a beat, before laughing, like he feels sorry for Zayn or something. He reaches into his pocket and holds out the key card for Zayn to take, which he does. And then, with one final glance at Zayn's towel, Harry winks at him again as he leaves the room, as Zayn drips more water onto the linoleum floor, his wet hair curling around his ears.  
  
Harry pops by a few more times that week, to rummage in Louis's stuff for various items of his, but luckily, Zayn answers the door each time fully clothed, calm and collected. He tries to ignore him, but Harry's polite and always asks about Zayn's day. He smiles and winks whenever he leaves in a hurry, even when Zayn looks at his watch to move him along. Zayn won't admit he notices, but the smell of Harry's cologne always lingers a tad too long, well past the standard twenty minutes.  
  
Zayn tries not to dwell on that.

  
»»»

  
After his first few days of classes, Zayn can't complain. He can't say his life has changed for the better, not too drastically yet, but he hasn't retreated into himself too far. He eats in the dining halls, alone still, but he goes out in public even when he doesn't have to for class. He attends his lectures and takes notes, his handwriting loopy yet straight, and he even types up his notes each night at his desk, for studying purposes later. He read over the summer that writing the notes by hand in class, and then typing them out, made you retain the information better. He gets enough sleep, he reads, he smiles at strangers.  
  
He doesn't see or talk to Louis once, thankfully. He realizes he's seen Harry more than he's seen Louis, and all in all, he enjoys the single room to himself. It's nice.  
  
Zayn's glad that it's all going according to plan, so far. He just needs a friend or two and then he'll be set.  
  
He feels the most content and happy when in his photography classes. It's a nice feeling, to have a major as a freshman and know explicitly, deep down, that it's totally the right career choice. There's no second guessing or wondering if it'll be right for him, not when he sits on the edge of his seat and watches the slides on the projector from Dr. Gregory, of various photos, some of which Zayn has seen in books, and some that are brand new.  
  
He even has a class where for the first few days, they just learn about the inner workings of a camera itself, which could be boring, but Zayn finds fascinating. He calls his mom every night to say hello to the girls, to tell his dad how he's been. Doniya texts him constantly, probably at the request of his parents, which he should hate. But she also sends a ton of pictures of Bahar, so he lets it slide. She's almost two, only a few months away from her birthday, and Zayn savors the photos, even if they're not shot right and completely out of focus.  
  
That Thursday, Zayn walks into his one night class, the one math credit he needs as a photography major. It's a two hour class, only once a week, and if Zayn weren't so good with numbers, it'd probably kill him by midterms.  
  
He settles in at a desk in the middle of the lecture hall, after reading that sitting in the back doesn't reflect well with professors, when he notices the guy walk in. The guy from the dorm lobby, the one who knocked into him and smiled afterwards.  
  
His eyes scan the seats, looking for an empty chair, when he lands on Zayn.  
  
Zayn's heart rate picks up slightly, before he pinches his thigh.  
  
_I do not have anxiety. I am cool. I am great. People want to know me. People want me to be their friend. I am bigger and better than ever._  
  
Zayn smiles at him, his sideways smile that he knows looks good on him, and the guy smiles back as he walks up the aisle. Zayn tugs at his hair a little, longer than he ever let it get in high school, curling at his neck slightly, and shifts in his seat. Suddenly his jeans feel tight and his feet slip in his boots, the collar of his tshirt too far up his neck.  
  
"Hey," the guy nods, sliding into the seat on Zayn's right, a cocky smile on his lips.  
  
"Hey."  
  
"We kinda met, right?"  
  
Zayn can do this, he can. He can flirt and socialize and talk to a guy, because he had a little practice with Josh Aquinas junior year when they had gym together, before he moved to Florida. They made out once, as Josh waited for his mom to pick him up, tucked behind the parking lot near the baseball field. Josh was known around school for being into guys, even bragged about having a boyfriend in St. Louis, and he was the first guy to ever touch Zayn's dick, under his jeans and everything. Zayn still thinks about it when he gets hard in the shower. So he steels himself and sits up straighter.  
  
"Yeah, on move-in day. You about took me out," Zayn smiles.  
  
"Hey man, I had to get to my room before my roommate. I needed the good side."  
  
"Totally understandable."  
  
They laugh once more, as a professor walks in and greets the class. Zayn reaches in his bag for a notebook and pencil, his arm brushing the guy next to him, his stomach swooping. He looks up at the guy, right as the guy looks through his eyelashes at Zayn, and Zayn knows then, that it's not in his head.  
  
"I'm Bryce," the guy whispers, fingers lingering on Zayn's wrist.  
  
"Zayn," he whispers back.  
  
They turn to the front again towards the professor and Zayn can't help the smile dancing on his face. The more he tries to get rid of it, the harder it gets. Because he can see Bryce out of the corner of his eye looking at him, and the plan is fucking working. He's still quiet, still himself, but he's letting people in, letting people see him and talk to him. It's going so well.  
  
Just then the movement on his left distracts him. Harry plops down in the seat on the side of Zayn not occupied by Bryce, huffing out a breath, making too much noise for such a quiet room. The professor keeps talking, going over the syllabus, handing out sheets of paper with practice problems for quizzes throughout the semester, as Harry blows the hair up and off his forehead.  
  
"Hey," he smiles at Zayn, reaching into his bag before glancing over at Bryce.  
  
Zayn's annoyed. _Of course_ Harry is in this class. He wanted to sit next to Bryce in peace, not have his roommate's annoying boyfriend in his space.  
  
"There are other empty seats," Zayn tries, whispering out of the side of his mouth.  
  
"I wouldn't want to be rude," Harry rolls his eyes. "Of course I gotta sit next to you. You're my freshman, I have to look out for you."  
  
"What?" Zayn whispers harshly.  
  
"Excuse you, Zayn. I'm trying to listen."  
  
Harry points his pencil towards the professor, a look of mock indignance on his face. Zayn scowls, bringing his eyes back to the professor and white board. He glances to his right, to Bryce, but he's not paying attention to Zayn anymore. He's actually taking notes and no longer smiling at him. Zayn about kicks Harry in the shin.

  
»»»

  
Zayn quickly exits the lecture hall two hours later, his boots squeaking on the floor slightly, as he tries to catch up with Bryce. But he walked out too quickly, with a small wave and wink, and is already halfway down the darkened block when Zayn gets to the front stairs leading into the math building.  
  
"Shit," Zayn huffs, giving up. They hadn't exchanged numbers or any other pleasantries, so he can't exactly expect to talk to him until next week when they're in class together again.  
  
Zayn puts in his headphones and starts his walk back towards his dorm, the street lamps illuminating the way, when Harry comes jogging up to walk with him.  
  
"Why'd you leave so fast?"  
  
Zayn gives him a pointed look.  
  
"Can I walk with you?" Harry tries again, smiling.  
  
Zayn continues down the path towards the sidewalk.  
  
"You probably wondered why I was in that class, huh," Harry keeps talking, because he apparently doesn't understand social cues. "Like, I'm a senior, right? But I'm a music major and we definitely don't need many math credits to graduate. Just one. But I kept putting it off because I'm so bad at it, so I just gotta suck it up this semester, I guess."  
  
Of course Harry is a music major. He questioned Zayn about his photos and dressed like he woke up every morning, ready to google "hipster attire." Zayn's fingers itch to grab at his phone, to turn his music up louder, but it'd be ridiculously rude and even on his worst days, it's hard for him to be mean to people.  
  
"Do you like math? Are you a math major?"  
  
Zayn sighs, all dramatic and exaggerated, hoping Harry gets the point, to leave him alone.  
  
"No, let me guess. You're into history. Or English. Art?"  
  
"Harry," Zayn sighs again.  
  
Harry doesn't hear him though, his face screwed up slightly, clearly wracking his brain for various majors that Zayn could have.  
  
"Photography," Zayn gives it to him, giving up.  
  
"Oh fuck, I should've known. All your pictures on your wall. Nice."  
  
Zayn walks faster, almost to his building now, Harry still next to him. A few people pass, people Zayn recognizes from his classes, so he smiles and waves. Because that's a thing Zayn Malik does now, look up at the world as he walks, instead of at his feet. It's such a refreshing change of pace, Zayn realizes again.  
  
"Were those your friends?" Harry asks, holding the door for Zayn.  
  
"No," Zayn shrugs.  
  
"They seemed to know you. So did that guy sitting on the other side of you in class. Bryce. He's a junior. I think he's in a frat."  
  
Zayn ignores him and gets into the elevator, Harry still following him. Zayn hits the button to the tenth floor and turns to Harry, finally looking at him fully.  
  
"Did you need something? Or am I just letting you into the room to wait for Louis?"  
  
Harry smiles at him, sucking his bottom lip into his mouth, all pink and soft and sweet. So Zayn rolls his eyes and turns away. Harry must get his way a lot, must constantly have the world bending to his will. If Zayn were smart, he'd make Harry wait in the lounge. But when he unlocks the door with his key card, he holds it open for Harry to follow him in.  
  
"So Bryce. He's hot, " Harry kicks off his boots, one knocking into the floor lamp, sending it flying precariously towards the large window overlooking endless fields beyond. Zayn grabs for it just in time.  
  
"Yeah," Zayn sighs and turns away.  
  
But Harry demands his attention again, fingers on Zayn's elbow.  
  
"Are you… You're into him, so… I could. I don't know. Do you need me to like, check him out for you? Ask around?"  
  
Zayn looks up through his eyelashes, to see Harry's blank expression, fingers tightening slightly on his arm. Harry's eyes sometimes look green, but other times they get big and loaded, like there's about four different colors swirling around in his irises and Zayn has to look away. If he thought too hard about the color of another guy's eyes, again, he'd be stuck in front of his laptop trying to recreate the hue in Photoshop, and really, he's just too busy.  
  
Zayn tries to ignore him after that, he really does. He sits at his desk, which forces his back to the room, and attempts to read a chapter in his Architecture  & Photography book, when he feels Harry hovering over his shoulder.  
  
"Can I help you?" Zayn stills, without looking up, eyes burning into the inked words on the paper.  
  
"Just wanted to see," Harry says quietly above him.  
  
"You're distracting."  
  
"So I've been told."  
  
Zayn rolls his eyes and pushes back from his desk, forcing Harry away from him entirely. When he swivels in his chair, he sees Harry walk backwards to flop on Louis's bed, smiling at him.  
  
"Does Louis even live here anymore?" Zayn leans back, giving up entirely. "Are you waiting around for him to come back? Because he hasn't in days."  
  
"He's been busy."  
  
Zayn snorts a laugh.  
  
"With what?"  
  
Harry looks at Zayn like he's a mental patient.  
  
"Class?"  
  
"What classes? And with what books? I've never seen him going to class."  
  
"He's always in class," Harry counters back, crossing his arms. "He has a scholarship. If his GPA falls even slightly, he's fucked. So he's busy. He gets very stressed and tense. He's either in class or at the library or working. He sleeps at my house a lot because it's closer to his lab. So cut him some slack."  
  
Zayn scratches his arm. Louis didn't seem the studious type.  
  
"Besides, you didn't exactly seem very friendly that first day. You stared him down until he told you he was gay and then you put headphones in for an hour. So maybe he doesn't want to bother you."  
  
Zayn feels Harry's words in his gut.  
  
"He wouldn't bother me by living in the room he pays for. But… he made fun of me. I know he did," Zayn looks at his hands.  
  
"He made fun of you before you could make fun of him."  
  
"I wouldn't do that," Zayn frowns to Harry. "I'm not an asshole."  
  
"Tell him that."  
  
"When?"  
  
"When he gets in tonight."  
  
"Fine."  
  
They stare at each other. Zayn realizes Harry sticks up for people. Harry wants people to get along, to understand each other. He's nurturing, in his own way. And maybe Harry realizes Zayn needs help figuring strangers out sometimes. As someone who's been on the shitty end of most social interactions, Zayn forgets other people can be just as insecure and reserved, even loud people like Louis. They stare and stare, before smiling. It's a small understanding in that moment, but an important one.  
  
"So you're bad at math, huh," Zayn shrugs.  
  
"Terrible."  
  
"If you like, need help or whatever. Let me know."  
  
"Oh freshman, you have no idea," Harry lays down on the bed fully, hands behind his head on Louis's pillow. "Why do you think I sat next to you?"  
  
Zayn rolls his eyes and swivels back around to face his desk.  
  
"Thought it was my charm and good looks," he mumbles, a smile on his lips, turning a page.  
  
Harry doesn't say anything after that, the silence settling in the room, finally, as Zayn continues reading.

  
»»»

  
Zayn wakes up to his alarm Friday morning in his bed, still in the clothes he was wearing the night before, a hoodie and basketball shorts, hanging dangerously low on his hip bones. It's like his senses all come back to him too slowly, as he swats at the snooze button on the alarm clock near his face. He scrubs his hands over his cheeks, the rough hairs there too long. He needs a shave.  
  
He doesn't remember falling asleep, though. Or setting his alarm. He must've fallen asleep before Louis got in, before they could talk. After he read for class and typed his notes, he gave in, eyes rolling when Harry sighed loudly from boredom, and he shut his book with a snap.  
  
He and Harry talked for awhile, staring at the ceiling from each bed, laughing over stupid shit. Zayn doesn't remember the last thing he said, or if Harry mentioned it was late, or if they both got tired at the same time. Zayn runs his hands through the hair on his chin again, thinking.  
  
He looks to the other side of the room, still empty of decoration or personality, and sees Harry staring at him, his arm wrapped around a sleeping Louis. It's about then that Zayn knows. Harry must've put the blanket over him. Set his alarm.  
  
Zayn blinks twice.  
  
"Thanks," he mumbles, getting out of his bed, to get ready for class in a rush.  
  
"No worries," Harry whispers back with a small smile.  
  
The entire time he brushes his teeth in the bathroom down the hall, it's like his body moves without his brain telling it to. Because even through the haze of sleep, he feels a sense of muscle memory, of strong arms lifting him up and under his blanket, smooth hands taking his socks off because he hates to sleep with socks on. He doesn't remember telling Harry that. He doesn't remember telling anyone that.  
  
When he gets back to his room to grab his stuff, he sees the water bottle on his desk, the one he always leaves open on accident, with the lid securely on. His lamp shut off, the fan he needs blowing to sleep, switched on low, his books in a neat pile. Pieces of Harry left behind, after their night of getting to know random facts about each other. It wasn't anything deep or groundbreaking, but Zayn now knows that Harry likes to eat ice cream with a fork and whistles when he pees. He knows Harry loves his family so fiercely, becomes so protective of his sister, he ends up sounding a lot like Zayn's sisters can be with him. He also now knows that Harry, like Zayn, likes to tuck his hand under his cheek when laying in bed, when they eventually faced each other and laughed into the night.  
  
Zayn doesn't look at the two of them wrapped together until he's completely dressed, with his camera around his neck, as he walks towards the door. Harry's fallen back asleep, his face in the back of Louis's hair, the two of them shirtless, content and warm. They must spend their nights at the house Harry lives in, the one he shares with guys from the music department, because Zayn realizes he's never had to look at this before, them embracing, sweet and tender. He's also never had to walk in on them fucking, which he appreciates.  
  
Zayn looks at his feet and closes the door as quietly as he can.

  
»»»

  
The next few weeks pass rather quickly. Zayn had read college flies by much too fast, and he knows it's true when he goes to write the date at the top of his notebook in his history class, and realizes it's almost October. He's been so busy with projects, shooting moving objects, the leaves changing in the park, the toddler of a classmate, that he's forgotten to appreciate it all, the ways in which he's growing. Being better.  
  
He also forgets a lot of things in math class, mostly because Bryce tends to put his arm on the back of Zayn's chair when he needs to crack his back or stretch his neck.  
  
Harry sometimes pokes him with his pencil, when his gaze lingers on Bryce's shoulders for too long, or when he can't stop staring at the sweet way Bryce writes with his left hand and hunches over his paper. Zayn could kick himself again for promising to help Harry in this stupid class, every time Harry forces him to pay attention to Professor Murphy.  
  
Zayn has to keep an eye on Harry, is the thing. More often than not, when Murphy starts a new chapter, Harry's eyes glaze over and his entire face scrunches in confusion. It happens more and more as the weeks go on, and Zayn has to bite his pencil sometimes, to keep from reaching over and correcting every single problem Harry writes on his quiz papers. If he's not careful, he's going to get caught looking and be made out as a cheat.  
  
But then Bryce tends to stretch more often during quizzes, when he finishes before everyone else, and Zayn can't help but stare at the sliver of skin on his lower back when his shirt rides up. Then Harry sometimes forgets to bring a snack to class, since it goes right over dinner hours at the dining hall, so Zayn has to remember to bring extra fruit for him. And then Bryce sometimes touches Zayn's arm when they have a ten minute break, and it makes Zayn's head feel light.  
  
It's all just so weird and distracting, Zayn ends up worrying through math class more than concentrating.  
  
"You could've told us, you know," Harry mentions to him one night, as they walk back to Zayn's room, the room Harry insists on staying at every Thursday night after class, even when Louis is in labs for all hours of the night. Louis still doesn't show his face around the room much. They haven't talked. Zayn's starting to take it personally.  
  
"Told you what?"  
  
"That you're gay, too. You could've said so, that first day."  
  
Zayn grabs for his phone from his pocket, it lighting up with a text from Bryce already, with a simple smiley face. He bites his lip and replies with one of his own, before looking up at Harry again.  
  
"You didn't ask," Zayn shrugs.  
  
Harry just nods at that. Because it's true and maybe he realizes he needs to explicitly ask Zayn things, sometimes. Maybe he's realized already that Zayn doesn't offer much, doesn't really know how to, after years of facing the world on his own.  
  
Once they're back in his room, across from each other on each bed with just Zayn's desk lamp illuminating their textbooks on their laps, Harry looks up at him. Zayn knows because he can sense when someone's staring at him, he's always been good at that, at finding the eyes glaring at him or judging him, before he gets shoved to the ground or pushed out of a line.  
  
"What?"  
  
Harry opens his mouth. But then closes it. He finally settles on a few words.  
  
"I like your pictures," Harry juts his chin to the prints on Zayn's desk.  
  
They were of the baby from earlier in the week. Julia brought her son to class for everyone to practice capturing, the light on his delicate face, the movement of his feet. Babies can be erratic when sat in the middle of a studio. Dr. Gregory said he wanted them to learn to how to capture children before working their way up to adults. A few people grimaced at the project, hated when little Devon cried for half the session, but Zayn actually enjoyed it. It made him miss Bahar of course, but he likes to think he did well.  
  
"Thanks," Zayn smiles, looking at the glossy pictures. "It was fun."  
  
"So is that what you want to do? Take pictures of people?"  
  
"I think so," Zayn says thoughtfully, putting down his pen, gesturing to the wall behind his head. "I see these amazing photographs of beautiful places around the world, of wildlife, of adventure. And it seems so cool, to have that huge career, to be in National Geographic or TIME. But like… I think I like people more. I like to see their faces, up close. I want to grasp that light, you know? I want to shoot true expression. Smaller scale, I guess."  
  
Harry stares at him. It's the most Zayn's ever said all at once.  
  
Zayn shrugs and picks up his pen.  
  
"I don't know, maybe that sounds stupid."  
  
"It doesn't."  
  
"Thanks."  
  
"I'm the same with music. I can play the guitar and I can sing. I really enjoy both. People say I light up on stage. But I don't like… need the big, huge career. I want to write words. Words to give people, to artists, to express their feelings, just as much as they express mine. I just… I want people to want my words, to want what I can give. Does that make sense?"  
  
Zayn looks at Harry then, surprised. Harry surprises him constantly, it seems.  
  
"I bet you're good at it."  
  
"You think so?" Harry grins, biting his lip.  
  
"Anyone who can't shut up for more than five minutes, has to have a certain way with words. You seem to, at least."  
  
Harry laughs and grabs for his pen again. He shuts up and lets Zayn read. It's another pleasant surprise.

  
»»»

  
Bryce texts Zayn that weekend, to hang out in the park before it gets too cold, to study and have lunch. So Zayn texts Doniya and she tells him to wear the leather jacket he got for Christmas last year, the one he never thought he could pull off.  
  
But Doniya's usually right, so he pulls it on and looks at himself in the mirror. It's good, he decides. His black jeans and black hair, longer than it's ever been, with leather to top it off, is a look Zayn decides he wants to keep. Maybe it'll be his new college look. The new Zayn Malik.  
  
He snaps a picture for her and she sends back a million exclamation points.  
  
As he steps off the elevator in the lobby, he sees two girls look him up and down in awe. He smiles at them and makes his way down the path towards the student union and sloping park next to it.  
  
Harry and Louis pass him at one point and give a quick hello, their eyes on him like he's a stranger. He waves and that's that.  
  
It's a pleasant afternoon, as they lay in the grass for two hours. Bryce is from South Dakota, but a bunch of his family lives in Kansas, so it made sense to come here for school. He tells Zayn all about his physical therapy classes, how his dad is a dietician and his mom is a chiropractor. He tells Zayn about high school and his first few years in college, the frat he joined because it was "super chill" with the gay thing.  
  
Zayn stares at him most of the day, his lips a little chapped from the wind, his hair blowing around his face beautifully, and he vaguely thinks he'd like to shoot him, either outside like this, or maybe in a studio. So he doesn't realize that Bryce never asks him a single question.

  
»»»

  
"How was your date?"  
  
It's out of Harry's mouth before Zayn can even shut the door properly. Zayn looks up as he toes off his boots, to see Harry at Louis's desk, Louis on his bed, laptops in front of them. Sometimes when Zayn gets back from class, Louis will be in the exact same position as he left him in, hunched over the screen, eyes laser focused. Louis gets in a zone when he studies, massive headphones on his head, so he doesn't glance up at Zayn at all. They still don't talk when they're in the room together, but they seem to have a mutual understanding. Louis at least knows when to shut his mouth, unlike Harry.  
  
"Wasn't a date."  
  
If it was his first date, Zayn would've known. And it wasn't. So he kicks his boots towards his closet and looks away.  
  
"You dressed like it was one."  
  
"Don't worry about how I dress," Zayn gets defensive, tossing his leather jacket onto his bed.  
  
"I don't," Harry frowns, turning back to his laptop.  
  
Zayn settles on his bed, pulling his backpack towards him, the one he worried about being too new, to grab his math book. If he needs to help Harry study for their quiz that Thursday, he'd very much like to do it now, instead of doing it Wednesday night, when he plans on holing himself up in the editing lab to finish his second still life project. He shot a bunch of random objects around campus, with different lighting, and he needed the time to get them right.  
  
But when he looks up to ask Harry to get out his calculator, Harry's already put his stuff away and is heading out the door.  
  
"Night, boys," he waves, frowning.  
  
Louis waves to him without looking up from his screen, and Zayn feels bad for Harry. Louis doesn't always pay attention to him, especially when he comes and goes, and that's not a nice feeling. Zayn knows it well, what it means to walk into a room, or exit one, and not have anyone acknowledge you.  
  
Harry's not his friend, not really, and neither is Louis. But they coexist together often enough, and Zayn frowns when Louis won't look up.  
  
"Bye Harry," he calls as the door snaps shut.

  
»»»

  
On Monday, Zayn gets back to his room to find Louis standing at his desk, looking at the pictures from his recent project. He holds the folder with the prints of the dog running, when Zayn and his classmates practiced with shutter speed, and only looks up when Zayn's bag hits the floor.  
  
"Hey," Zayn questions, walking forward slowly, setting his camera on his dresser.  
  
"These are cool."  
  
"Thanks."  
  
Louis sets the folder back on Zayn's desk and goes over to his bed to sit, eyeing Zayn. Zayn sits on his own bed and eyes him back, the stranger he lives with who rarely gives him the time of day, when he even more rarely inhabits their room. Even after his talk with Harry, about the misunderstanding between the two roommates, they still haven't said more than three words to each other. Zayn had given up, told his dad his roommate was always too busy to be in their room, whenever Yaser wanted to say hello to Louis. Zayn knew it was to touch base and give instructions on what to do if Zayn got too depressed, which is just too embarrassing.  
  
Louis clears his throat. Zayn folds his hands in his lap.  
  
"Harry says I need to get to know you better."  
  
"Okay."  
  
Louis rolls his eyes and huffs a breath.  
  
"See, that's your problem."  
  
"What is?"  
  
"I say something and all you say back is 'okay.' Don't do that."  
  
"Okay."  
  
Zayn gets it out before he can stop himself, and he realizes it makes him sound like a jackass. So he shakes his head as Louis shoots him daggers with his eyes.  
  
"Sorry," Zayn crosses his legs. "I just… don't know how to talk to someone like you. Not well, I guess."  
  
"What does that even mean?"  
  
"You're intimidating," Zayn shrugs.  
  
Louis rolls his eyes again. He rolls them a lot.  
  
"Yeah well, hate to break it you, freshman, but the world is intimidating. A lot of people are. Life's tough, get a helmet."  
  
Zayn blinks at him. Louis thinks he's tough and mature, older than Zayn the little freshman, like Zayn doesn't already _get_ their dynamic. But regardless, Louis doesn't know Zayn or where he comes from. He doesn't know what he's been through, doesn't understand him, so this should be enough for Zayn to forget the whole thing and give up on being friends with his roommate.  
  
But Zayn realizes he doesn't know Louis either. He remembers what Harry said weeks ago, that Louis had one small conversation with Zayn and then was immediately shut out when Zayn put on music and turned away. He thought he was bothering Zayn, that Zayn would eventually make fun of him for something, and instead jumped at the chance to hurt Zayn first. Maybe Louis is like Zayn and doesn't know how to relate to strangers either. So he thinks of the plan, of how he swore he'd be different in college, remembers to be brave again, and leans forward.  
  
"Where are you from?" he asks easy as anything.  
  
Louis eyes him.  
  
"Topeka."  
  
"Me too."  
  
Louis uncrosses his arms, which is a step in the right direction. So he uncrosses his own.  
  
"Cool."  
  
"Harry says you're smart," Zayn smiles. "What's your major?"  
  
"Sociology with a concentration in policy analysis," Louis shrugs, smug, cheeks warm at the compliment.  
  
"Damn," Zayn laughs. "Definitely smart, then."  
  
After that, they spend an hour talking. Really talking, back and forth, with full sentences and genuine intrigue. They went to high schools not too far apart. They both have too many sisters to keep up with, to look after. They both had crushes on the oldest brother from "Home Improvement." Louis even tossed Zayn a piece of gum when he got one out of his pocket for himself. Zayn caught it with a quick hand, which he was amazed at, the fact that he can look cool doing something so small. He really is changing, it seems.  
  
That night as he gets in bed, Louis babbling on the other side of the room about how they both like actually like Fleetwood Mac, Zayn sees a text on his phone and realizes it's from Harry, with a winky face. He can't help but smile.

  
»»»

  
By Halloween weekend, Zayn's just about where he wants to be, plan-wise.  
  
In every single class he takes, he has someone to talk to. The people in desks next to him ask him about his mornings, how his weekends were, if he's watching "The Walking Dead." He feels himself getting braver, more sure, confident and cool. A girl grabbed for his hand in the edit room Friday afternoon and asked if he wanted to grab drinks. He almost said yes, just to be polite and because it's never happened before.  
  
But he said no and texted Bryce instead, just a quick hello. Bryce replied that he wanted to hang out that weekend and it makes Zayn smile into his fist.  
  
The plan is working. Everything is going well. His mom has stopped asking him in a worried voice if he needs to talk to anyone, if he needs medicine again. His dad has stopped telling Doniya to check in. His younger sisters ignore his texts when they're hanging out with their friends, something they'd never do even a year ago. His family have officially stopped worrying about him, and that more than anything else, feels like a weight off his chest.  
  
The most pleasant surprise of all is that Louis is his friend. He realized it that night after their talk, but also when they eat dinner together a few nights a week, when Harry studies in their room and Louis doesn't even get annoyed that Harry has to ask Zayn a million questions about trig.  
  
Louis likes to hold his shoulder sometimes, when they wait in line for food, as he tells Zayn about his labs. And when Zayn shows him his camera, holds it up from his chest to let Louis see the weird shit he snaps at all day, Louis ruffles his hair. Zayn's never had an older brother, and some days it feels like Louis must know. Louis and Harry both invite him to the parties they attend every weekend. Zayn turns them down because large parties are the last hurdle to cross. But they seem to understand he needs a little more time to open that part of himself up.  
  
Zayn catches Harry looking at them sometimes, with a small smile on his lips, as Louis tucks his feet under Zayn's knees when they sit on the floor to watch movies on Sunday afternoons, when Harry brings a hand to Louis's hair. Zayn's glad he never has to ask them to keep the PDA to a minimum, never feels like the third wheel, even when they cuddle on Louis's bed night after night. Zayn tends to face the wall when he sleeps anyways, so it's not too terrible. The nights Louis spends at Harry's house, Zayn goes to sleep early, his brain suddenly too tired to study.  
  
It's going so well.  
  
Zayn doesn't need to repeat his plan like a mantra anymore, not often. It's ingrained now. Zayn Malik found himself, somehow, with Louis by his side, Harry hovering behind him, and Bryce holding his hand between classes. Bryce kisses him every time they part on Mondays and Wednesdays, in between classes, near the student union, and it makes Zayn feel like he's on top of the fucking world. He can tell Bryce wants more, that he's itching to get Zayn alone, behind closed doors. He can't help but think that maybe it's time, that maybe he needs someone to cuddle with in his bed, when Louis and Harry leave him alone.  
  
A few sorority girls about cried the day before, when Bryce ran his finger down Zayn's cheek, in full view of about a hundred people outside of the English building. Bryce leaned in, after shooing them all away and told Zayn he wanted to see him on Halloween, wanted to see him with that leather jacket on, and Zayn nodded into his neck, biting his skin a little. The sharp intake of breath from Bryce was so fucking good, Zayn could hardly stand it.  
  
It's all just going _so_ fucking well.  
  
So of course it goes to shit Saturday morning, Halloween Eve.  
  
Zayn wakes up to an empty room, Louis off with Harry somewhere most likely, and decides to go to the dining hall early to grab coffee, when everyone is still hung over and asleep.  
  
He shuffles to the massive coffee machine and shoves a mug under the spout, rubbing at his eyes. He needs to shoot at the studio for a few hours, his friend Miguel from class said he'd sit for him, before the huge Halloween party that night at a house off campus. Louis invited him and said he should wear his leather jacket, to be a Greaser with him. Zayn finally accepted the invitation and texted his mom right away, because even now after a few weeks of being a normal person, he gets excited at being included.  
  
He doesn't even know why he does it, but he glances to his right and there, tucked in the corner, is Louis Tomlinson with his lips attached to another guy's lips.  
  
Full on make out. Teeth on lips, hands in hair, feet tangled under the table, making out.  
  
Zayn stares at them and wonders what the fuck he's supposed to do. Louis is his roommate. He should be loyal to him, not say a word to Harry. But Harry is in his math class, is his friend just as much as Louis is. He put Zayn's blanket over him that one time, and sometimes brings Zayn a Red Bull to stay awake as he studies. He smiles when Louis tugs Zayn under his arm and laughs when Zayn tells jokes.  
  
But since he's a coward, Zayn forgoes the coffee and scurries out the door before Louis can spot him, runs straight to his dorm and to the elevator, to get to his room as fast as he can.  
  
Of course Harry's there, sitting against his door with his eyes closed, clearly in the same clothes from the night before. Harry must hear his approach, the way he stops in his tracks, because all he does is wordlessly hold up a hand.  
  
"Not a word," he croaks. "I am hungover. I need a bed, any bed, right now. I need to recover before tonight. Because tonight is big."  
  
Zayn grabs his arms and pulls him up, following Harry's instructions not to speak. He shuffles them into the room and helps him into Louis's bed. He tugs off his boots and tucks the blanket under his chin.  
  
"Thanks," Harry sighs, rubbing at his nose with puffy fingers.  
  
"No worries."  
  
Zayn steps back and grabs at his hair. He's fucked. Louis is going to come back into the room and see Harry in his bed, and Zayn knows he won't be able to be in the same room and act normal. He spilled Waliyha's nail polish on the carpet in the dining room years ago and barely made it thirty seconds before confessing to his mom, sobbing out the truth, Doniya rolling her eyes. It's still a hilarious family story they tell around the Thanksgiving table.  
  
"Fuck," he hisses, pacing towards his desk.  
  
"What is your problem?" Harry grumbles, now with Louis's comforter pulled up over his face.  
  
Zayn shouldn't say anything. He shouldn't.  
  
"Louis was making out with a guy in the dining hall just now," he rushes out, body turned towards the wall, grimacing.  
  
"So?"  
  
"What do you mean, so?"  
  
"Can I sleep now?"  
  
"Why don't you care?" Zayn turns to him in disbelief. "Your boyfriend's making out with some dude downstairs and you don't care?"  
  
Harry tugs the blanket down over his chin, looking at Zayn with wide, bloodshot eyes.  
  
"What the fuck are you talking about?"  
  
_"What?"_ Zayn spits out, now feeling like a true crazy person.  
  
"Louis is not my boyfriend," Harry scowls, angry. He stares at Zayn in disbelief, like he's pissed, but not about Louis making out with a boy. He looks pissed at Zayn.  
  
"Yes he is."  
  
"Louis has never been my boyfriend. Ever. He's my best friend. We made out once, when we were drunk. But… no. He's not… we're not. Ever. Not at all," Harry groans, eventually slapping his hand over his eyes.  
  
Zayn thinks it through then. He never heard them say they were dating, but he always… thought they were dating. They're close, always close, they cuddle in bed, they finish sentences and sneak glances at each other when they think Zayn isn't looking. They look… sweet together. Like a pair.  
  
The first day they walked in, it was effortless, easy, fun. They laughed and joked, and even though Zayn's never had many friends, he knows how friends act and Harry doesn't act like a friend towards Louis. He holds doors for him and touches his back when they walk together. He brushes the hair off Louis's forehead when it falls over his glasses. Zayn sees it all the time, every day, the affection there. He wishes he could have some of his own, some day, maybe with Bryce, or with someone else.  
  
"I thought…"  
  
"You're a fucking idiot," Harry finishes, turning his entire body away and towards the wall, back to Zayn.  
  
"I'm… sorry?" Zayn grabs his hair again, confused.  
  
"I'm going to sleep now," Harry says in a whisper, voice muffled against the pillow.  
  
"Okay."

  
»»»

  
People shove and bump into Zayn from all sides that night. It's so hot in the house, some house off campus Louis said threw great parties all year, every year. Apparently the baseball team's head coach owned it and rented it out to boys on the team. Like clockwork, the older guys passed down the torch to their younger teammates, to carry on the tradition of blasting music and serving Jungle Juice until the sun comes up. It's a resident party house. Always.  
  
Louis absolutely loved it, threw his hands up the second they walked in the door, getting a few excited yells from girls dressed as Barbies in the kitchen. Harry had been quiet the whole way over, but it was like he too lit up like a Christmas tree, when entering a house full of people who knew his name. He had dressed up as Miley Cyrus, in little shorts and pigtails in his hair, and it was apparent to Zayn that it was a hit. People lost their minds as Harry walked from room to room, laughing.  
  
Zayn was the only one of the three of them not to run in. He instead took his time, walked in with steady feet, his leather jacket starting to stick to him already. It was just that the day's events still swam around in his mind and the stuffy air smelling like vodka wasn't helping.  
  
After Harry rolled over and called him an idiot that morning, it was like his old anxiety sat on his chest, like it was clawing its way inside to settle under his ribcage. It's not an unfamiliar feeling. He was already anxious for the party, and then Harry got all sad and tense after Zayn told him about Louis kissing a guy. He tried to do his shoot with Miguel a few hours later, but he couldn't get his head right, knowing Harry was in his room, upset.  
  
So he did what he always did and left the studio to call Doniya.  
  
"Hey!" she answered, out of breath, as Zayn settled on a bench near art building. "I'm glad you called!"  
  
"Hey."  
  
He heard her stop, the movements on the other end of the line, coming to a halt. She could hear his voice. She knew.  
  
"What's wrong?" she questioned immediately.  
  
"I don't even know."  
  
"Zayn."  
  
"I don't. Like, I just feel… I feel like… I just feel - "  
  
"Use your words and explain it," she said softer, repeated the thing she's had to say numerous times, for various reasons. "Dig through it. You'll find it."  
  
Zayn had to take a breath, to organize his thoughts like his old therapist taught him how, like how Doniya always tells him. Sometimes feelings aren't clear right away. Zayn read up on it and some people bury things too deeply, let the anxiety crawl inside too fast, to actually figure out what they're anxious over in the first place. Sometimes he has to be reminded to sift through the sand, to find the root of it.  
  
"I have that party tonight, the huge one with a ton of people. And then… I just. I thought my roommate had a boyfriend, you know?"  
  
"Harry."  
  
Zayn didn't think he ever said too much about Harry, to Doniya or anyone else.  
  
"Yes. Right."  
  
"And?"  
  
"I thought they were dating. I always thought… Harry was so affectionate with him. They were always together. I just thought. I thought they were together."  
  
Doniya didn't say anything right away, which should've told Zayn everything he needed to know. Unfortunately, Zayn wasn't paying close enough attention to his older sister, not listening to the clicking of her tongue, like she does when she's about to tell him something important. Before she could speak, he heard Bahar in the background, screeching with delight.  
  
"Come here, meri jaan," she cooed, Zayn feeling better already, hearing her loving tone. "You want to say hi?"  
  
Zayn couldn't help but smile, when Bahar's garbled voice rang through the phone. He could hear a ringing, some bell sound, probably from the toy Bahar was holding in Doniya's face.  
  
"Say hi to Zaynie," Doniya tried again, as Bahar laughed.  
  
"How's my girl?" Zayn smiled, picking at a string hanging from his shirt.  
  
"She's preoccupied, sorry," Doniya sighed, the sounds of Bahar and her toy sounding farther away. "Can we still come see you tomorrow?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"How about we talk then, hmm? See how you feel after your party tonight and really get to the bottom of it all?"  
  
"Yeah, okay."  
  
"Zayn, whatever it is, whatever the feeling is… Maybe I'm not the one to talk to you, you know?"  
  
"I don't want to talk to anyone in therapy," he huffed petulantly.  
  
"That's not what I meant. And you know it. You have friends now. You have people around you now, people who want to listen. So let them."  
  
Zayn sighed and told her he loved her, before they hung up. When he got back to his room, Harry was gone, Louis's bed was made. Louis still hadn't come back, was probably still sucking the face of some random guy. And maybe Harry really was upset by the whole thing, if he didn't want to see Louis after all, so Zayn told himself to check in with him later. Maybe Harry needed to talk about his own feelings.  
  
But when Harry came back to the dorms to pick them up, he seemed the same. Normal. Louis grabbed at Zayn's leather jacket, the two of them matching with slicked back hair and cigarettes tucked behind their ears, and Zayn shut his mouth. Harry said they looked great, as he adjusted his shorts slightly in Louis's mirror, and Zayn had to look away it was so obscene. He stayed mostly quiet as they walked to the house party and kept his mouth shut all the way inside, when Louis and Harry disappeared to talk to people.  
  
More people shove at him, moving around to get more drinks and greet friends. Zayn tries to breathe through it, to find someone he knows, when finally he catches Louis's eye again. Louis smiles and makes his way back towards Zayn, near the front windows covered in fake cobwebs and spiders. He hands Zayn a drink, something pink and so strong, it makes Zayn's eyes water.  
  
"You good?" Louis yells to him, holding his arm.  
  
Zayn almost nods, almost shoves it down. But he remembers what Doniya said and thinks about Louis, and Harry, and how they're his friends and how people are supposed to tell their friends how they feel.  
  
"I feel very anxious," he yells in return, getting close, speaking into Louis's ear.  
  
Louis leans back to look at him. And he must understand.  
  
"You stay with me, okay? Wherever I go, follow me. We're in matching costumes anyways, we need to wow them together," Louis winks.  
  
After that, Zayn feels his shoulders relax. He lets Louis lead him around, lets himself be poked and prodded by Louis and Harry's friends, commenting on his jacket and cheek bones and stubble. They call him hot. A few girls rest their hands on his lower back when they lean in to talk to him. A guy from Louis's Tuesday lab whispers in his ear that they should hang out some time. The plan continues to work, anxiety be damned, and Zayn is grateful all over again.  
  
Zayn also drinks cup after cup of the pink drink Louis handed him. It's very strong.  
  
"I saw you earlier," he slurs slightly, in the hallway waiting for the bathroom, as Louis walks up and hands him another.  
  
"What?" Louis laughs.  
  
"You were making out with a dude this morning."  
  
"Ah. His name is Ryan, and his cock is fucking massive," Louis sighs contentedly, leaning his head against the cracked plaster.  
  
Zayn laughs so hard, he's afraid he's going to piss his pants. He knew, of course he knew, that the more liquid one ingests, the more one has to urinate. But it's like tonight he can't stop, he has to pee every ten fucking minutes it seems, and he worries it makes him girly, asking Louis to go with him, but whatever, Bryce hasn't shown up yet and Zayn's not anxious anymore, which is really quite nice.  
  
"I wonder if Bryce's is massive," Zayn giggles, spilling his drink onto his white tshirt.  
  
"Bet it is."  
  
"You think?"  
  
"You should ask him," Louis falls against him, lips on Zayn's cheek. "See if you can blow him tonight. Bet a room's free."  
  
"Why can't he blow me?"  
  
"Ask him that instead!"  
  
They crack up again, right as Louis spills his own drink now, on their shoes.  
  
"You think Harry's is big?" Zayn slurs worse, grabbing for Louis to straighten him up.  
  
Louis looks up at him, like he's about to question him, right as Harry comes tumbling out of the bathroom, drunk as hell. He sees them clutching each other and throws his arms in the air.  
  
"Boys!"  
  
"Hazza!" Louis yells, pulling him in, the three of them hugging.  
  
Zayn watches as Harry and Louis discuss someone Zayn doesn't know, some guy from their dorm freshman year who showed up at the party uninvited, with his girlfriend making a scene. They had a fight in the kitchen earlier, something stupid, but apparently it's a hilarious story.  
  
Harry eventually zeros in on him, his fingers tightening on Zayn's shoulder, as the three of them step back slightly, standing in a little circle. Zayn vaguely wonders how many people have cut him in line for the toilet, and his bladder aches a little. Harry says something, but he can't hear, so he lazily brings his eyes back into focus.  
  
"What?"  
  
"I said you're fucking crazy," Harry smiles, but not in a sweet way.  
  
"What?" Zayn frowns.  
  
Louis's eyes bounce from Harry's face to Zayn's.  
  
"Lou, Zayn told me you were making out with a guy this morning. Thought I was gonna be mad. Thought we were dating, bless him."  
  
Zayn doesn't like this smile on Harry's face. It doesn't sit right, it doesn't tilt the right way, his lips aren't pink like bubble gum, but pale like he's dehydrated, cracked from not licking them enough, which is ridiculous, because Harry licks his lips all the time, almost constantly, he can't stop usually, when he's in math class and staring at the board like it holds CIA secrets. Zayn almost reaches his hand up to touch Harry's lips, to remind him to lick, when he stops.  
  
"Don't make fun of me," Zayn slurs, as he extricates himself from his friends' clutches.  
  
"Be nice, Hazza," Louis laughs. "We _are_ affectionate. Can't blame a guy."  
  
"Just saying, you're an idiot," Harry shrugs, moving away, looking at Louis. "He thinks he's smart, but he doesn't pay attention to anything."  
  
Zayn pushes past Louis and goes into the bathroom once and for all. He takes a long piss, with a hand on the wall to hold himself up. When he looks in the mirror, he sees the new Zayn Malik, drunk and sweaty, with slick hair and wet lips. Fuck Harry, if that's how he feels, if he thinks Zayn doesn't listen. He listens just fine, he hears everything, because he's quiet and quiet people are perceptive and smart and soak words up like a sponge. Harry always said nice things to Louis, made him feel good and stuck up for him. Zayn's not an idiot and Bryce thinks he's hot.  
  
So he stomps out of the bathroom, past a line of girls, and fumbles for his phone to text him. He doesn't get far and right as he reaches for it, his head bent down, a hand reaches for him. And wouldn't you know it, it's Bryce, drunk and pretty, dressed like a pirate, and it's so great that he's there. Zayn says that even, says it out loud as he wraps his arms around Bryce's shoulders.  
  
Bryce drags him towards the stairs without a word, though. Zayn looks over his shoulder and sees Harry Styles kissing a girl in a tight red dress, up against the kitchen counter. A guy in sweatpants and wrapped hands, like some sort of boxer, reaches for Harry's chin and tilts it from the girl's mouth, directly to his own. Harry kisses him, shoves his tongue in his mouth, and a bunch of people cheer for the three of them.  
  
Zayn doesn't see much after that, as Bryce pulls him up the stairs and shoves him against the door leading to another room.  
  
"You look so good," Bryce huffs in his ear, rutting against him, licking up his neck.  
  
"You do," Zayn huffs back, head swimming, fingers numb at the hem of Bryce's shirt.  
  
"You wanna blow me?"  
  
"I just…"  
  
Zayn loses his train of thought, loses most of the thoughts in his head, which is nice, to not be anxious, but it's not as nice as he would've hoped because he flashes to images of Harry kissing those people downstairs and then he starts to wonder who else he's kissing.  
  
"C'mon," Bryce switches to the other side of Zayn's neck, biting, sucking. "Want your mouth."  
  
"Just…"  
  
Zayn tries again, to speak, to string a sentence together to tell Bryce what he wants, that he wants to just lay with him somewhere, to rest his head for a bit. Maybe they can fool around after he rests for just a minute, maybe five minutes, but then Bryce is on his mouth again, breath hot.  
  
Zayn kisses back, but it's weird because he can't feel his own lips very well, and the numbness in his hands seems to have found its way to his feet and his head, because he feels like a wet noodle trying to stand up straight. He's suddenly hyper aware of all his extremities and how they're not moving the way he wants them to, so he pushes at Bryce's chest so he can breathe properly.  
  
Bryce comes back at him though, lips on his neck again, hand on Zayn's jeans, needy.  
  
"Can we," Zayn tries, hands on Bryce's chest again, pushing. "I just."  
  
"You look so good, babe," Bryce bites his lip.  
  
Zayn pushes at him harder, until Bryce completely steps away from him, against the other wall in the darkened, empty hallway. Bryce's eyes are wild, pupils blown wide from arousal, and he stares at Zayn like Zayn kicked his dog or something.  
  
The last thing Zayn remembers is Bryce rolling his eyes at him, bored and angry, as he turns towards the stairs to head back to the party. He says something to Zayn, but all Zayn can hear is the blood pumping through his veins, rushing in his ears, as he slumps down to the floor.  
  
_I'll just rest for just a minute, maybe five minutes, and then I'll go back to the party._  
  
_That's what I'll do._  
  
Zayn closes his eyes.

  
»»»

  
His phone wakes him up. It jolts him, like an electric current slamming through his poor body, until he sits up right. The light around him burns through his corneas, bending and refracting, forcing its way to his brain, to recognize his surroundings like eyeballs are supposed to. And Zayn has the thought that the sun is a dick, a big dick set to ruin his life, when from the look and feel of it, is ending soon. His stomach turns.  
  
Zayn brings a hand to his head, dizzy, blinking, the sun too harsh, too soon.  
  
He opens his eyes again and looks around, realizing he's in a strange room, in a strange bed, in someone else's clothes. His phone stopped buzzing on the table next to him, but it starts right up again, and Doniya's face flashes on the screen.  
  
"Hey," he croaks, answering it, covering his eyes.  
  
"Well hello, Zayn," she laughs, loudly. "Did I wake you?"  
  
"Time s'it?" he swallows around the feeling of glass shards stuck to his tongue.  
  
"Oh, it's about 9:00. Not too early. But I just wanted to check in after your party, to see how you were doing," she laughs again.  
  
"Fuck."  
  
"We'll be there at noon," she sing songs, hanging up on him.  
  
"Fuck," he whispers to himself, dropping his phone to his lap, exhausted all over again.  
  
But he needs to solve the mystery of where he is and where his clothes are. He tries to think about what he remembers from the night before, but all he comes up with is the party, that juice Louis kept giving him, Harry's hand on his shoulder, Harry kissing people, Bryce on his neck, the hallway. He was going to close his eyes in the hallway. Maybe he's still at that house, the gross one the baseball players live in.  
  
The room he's in presently is cramped, small. The ceiling is too low, the window directly next to the bed is open a crack, cool autumn air seeping in and making him shiver. He looks down at his chest and feels at the sweater he has on. It's soft. Black. It's way too big for him, hanging off one shoulder slightly, but it smells clean. The walls have sheet music tacked in various areas, a guitar in the corner, a keyboard and stool at the end of the bed. There are socks strewn across the floor, a desk and laptop in the other corner, more sheet music on the wall behind it.  
  
Zayn's head feels like it's about to explode and he wishes he could fall back asleep here. The sweater is warm, the blankets are warm, and he fears getting up and having to face anyone outside these walls. If he slept with someone, if he actually lost his virginity like this, or embarrassed himself, or puked on a stranger, he'll die. He will honestly crawl up and die in a ditch somewhere.  
  
Just then the door creaks open, hinges whining, and in steps Harry, tiptoeing backwards. He turns to push the door closed with his ass, hands occupied with two mugs, and looks up to see Zayn staring at him.  
  
"You're up," he whispers in a low voice, walking quietly to the bed.  
  
"Hey," Zayn nods, rubbing his eyes, looking away from Harry's bare chest.  
  
He's only in a pair of briefs and Zayn can't stare. Because he has the horrifying thought that maybe he slept with a stranger in Harry's bed, or maybe Harry slept with someone in his own bed, someone gorgeous and hot from the party, while Zayn passed out on the floor, and it's way too much to think about when hungover for the first time.  
  
Harry nudges his hand though, and Zayn accepts the coffee.  
  
"You good?" Harry blows onto the coffee in his hand, looking at Zayn expectantly.  
  
"No," Zayn smiles, nervous. "I just. I don't… remember."  
  
Zayn looks down at the sweater on his chest and realizes it's Harry's. Harry wore it two weeks before, when he met Louis and Zayn for dinner, with the dark blue jeans with the rip in the knee and a beanie. It looked good on him.  
  
Zayn feels his cheeks burn.  
  
"You didn't do anything embarrassing," Harry smiles reassuringly. "So don't worry. I can see it on your face. I brought you here, once I found you passed out in the hallway upstairs. I saw that Bryce guy come down them, looking pissed, and I figured I'd find you."  
  
"Oh. Uh, yeah. Thanks."  
  
"Did you…" Harry shrugs, drinking his coffee, to save himself from saying the words.  
  
"No. I didn't."  
  
"Was that why he was mad?" Harry scowls, pissed.  
  
"Probably," Zayn looks down at his hands.  
  
"Fuck him," Harry spits, shifting slightly so he's not facing Zayn head on anymore. "I had heard he was a dick, from other guys he's talked to. But if he… if he said… like, if he was mad at you. Just… fuck that guy."  
  
Zayn sips his coffee and looks out the window. They sit in silence for a few minutes, Harry easing up slightly. He shifts his weight and faces towards Zayn again, a little.  
  
"Thanks," Zayn sets his mug down on the table next to Harry's bed. "For bringing me here."  
  
"Louis went off with Ryan and I couldn't just take you back to the dorm to sleep by yourself," Harry eyes him. "S'not safe. To pass out from drinking. You could've like, puked in your sleep and choked on it."  
  
"Lovely imagery."  
  
"It's true. It happens," Harry looks away.  
  
Zayn realizes Harry thinks he's laughing at him, thinks he's irrational, or crazy. So Zayn reaches for him with a tentative hand, and grips his shoulder.  
  
"Thanks, Harry."  
  
"Course."  
  
"I should go," Zayn starts to move, getting out from under the deliciously warm blankets, the cool air hitting his legs and feet like a truck. He hisses even, feels his body curl slightly, from the temperature change. He tugs at the sweater, pulls it down to get some relief, and looks to the floor for his jeans.  
  
He's about to ask Harry where they are, turning to him with questioning eyes, to see Harry staring at him.  
  
"What?"  
  
But Harry just shakes his head and shrugs, a nervous laugh on his lips, eyes skating up Zayn's thighs to the large sweater hanging off him, Harry's sweater. He looks at Zayn like he wants him to stay, or maybe he wants to come with. But he doesn't say anything, instead moving off the bed to reach for Zayn's jeans and leather jacket on his desk chair.  
  
Zayn doesn't dwell on the fact that either Harry undressed him the night before, to make him comfortable, or he undressed himself with Harry in the room and asked for a shirt. But both thoughts make him a little dizzy, and dizzy on top of hungover is not a good combination.  
  
Harry turns away as Zayn strips the sweater off, shifts on the bed so he can look out the window towards the street below, and doesn't turn around until Zayn pulls his jacket on. He takes the last sip of his coffee before setting the mug next to Zayn's, his hands in his lap, nodding.  
  
"So," Harry looks up to him, still nodding. "Guess I'll… see you later then?"  
  
Zayn heads towards the door and reaches for the handle before he remembers. He's not anxious at the moment, even when he know for a fact he should be. His anxiety always sits next to his beating heart, especially in moments like this, and yet it's gone. It's not there.  
  
_I do not have anxiety. I am cool. I am great. People want to know me. People want me to be their friend. I am bigger and better than ever._  
  
He really doesn't have anxiety. And even when he doesn't feel very cool, the world thinks he is, people here at school have told him so. People do want to know him. He has friends. He's bigger and better than ever, and Harry's been there almost every day to see it. Harry.  
  
Zayn turns to him.  
  
"Hey, so…"  
  
Harry blinks. Twice. Expectantly.  
  
"My sister is coming to visit today," Zayn shrugs. "I was gonna go meet her soon. Then maybe study for that trig quiz on Thursday. Do you want to come?"  
  
Harry blinks again, and then shakes his head to snap out of it.  
  
"Yeah. I mean, yes. Sure, I can go. If you want."  
  
"Okay."  
  
"I'll just change, then. Or like, get dressed."  
  
"Okay."  
  
"Stop saying okay," Harry bites his lip, mirroring their good friend Louis Tomlinson.  
  
It makes Zayn laugh.

  
»»»

  
Bahar was, for lack of a better term, a "surprise." Doniya and Kayan had been dating since they were fourteen, the Maliks and Pavris had annual dinners every month, the kids running around their backyards, and they all joked about their eventual wedding. Yaser even sat Kayan down the day after high school graduation, to see where he was headed, to fully impress upon him the importance of being a man, the type of man his daughter could marry some day.  
  
That was another joke the families shared, the day Yaser took Kayan to lunch, for a "manly chat." Apparently Kayan, even though he knew Yaser for years, was so intimidated and nervous, he spilled his water all over his lap. Zayn had a field day with that and teased Kayan for a week straight, they all did, at how crazy it was for Yaser to not trust him, to not know he was a good boy with a good heart.  
  
Two months after that lunch, Doniya tearfully told Zayn that Bahar was on the way.  
  
Zayn took it as a sign to always trust his dad's instincts, because maybe he should've talked to Kayan sooner than he did.  
  
Once the surprise died down and everyone got used to the idea of a new baby, the two families joined together for the marriage ceremony. It was a beautiful day, Doniya looked like an angel, and Zayn had to hold her hand before it started, she was so nervous. And then a few months after that, once Bahar arrived, no one could even remember it not being okay. Bahar lit a fire in both families, brought them all even closer, made their monthly dinners even more special, as they all got to watch her grow up together.  
  
That's the story Zayn tells Harry as they walk towards the park. Harry nods in all the right places, laughs when Zayn describes the look on his dad's face when Doniya's water broke during Eid that year, and he even tears up a little when Zayn tells him how the entire waiting room, full of Maliks and Pavris, exploded when Kayan ran out and said he had a baby girl. Zayn doesn't have it in him just yet, to tell Harry that the only friends he's ever had were the Pavris, his sisters, and his own cousins, that Bahar lit up his own life because there wasn't much of a fire there to begin with. Bahar will always be special, always lift his mood, because she lifted his very spirit, the second she came into the world.  
  
"You must love her a lot," Harry nudges Zayn's arm with his own. "Your entire face brightens when you say her name."  
  
Zayn just smiles and walks a little faster, towards the swings and jungle gym.  
  
They hear her before they see her, her little laugh. Zayn rounds the tree line to see Doniya standing near the benches, a blanket in one hand and a bottle in the other, as Bahar runs around her. She's wearing a dress, frilly and pink, a bow in her hair, clutching a doll, and Zayn melts like he always does.  
  
"There's my girl," he runs the last few steps, as she turns and sees him. "How's this little baby?"  
  
He scoops Bahar up into his arms and hugs her, smells her even. She smells like their house and suddenly he misses them all, misses his dad's stupid singing and his mom's chicken. She squirms in his arms so he pulls back a little, to see her scowling.  
  
"This baby," she holds her doll out, pouting.  
  
"You're right, meri jaan, this is a baby," he nods. "How could I call you a baby? You're big, aren't you?"  
  
She squirms again, so he lets her down to play. She kicks up sand as she teeters over towards the jungle gym, Doniya smiling.  
  
"Hey you," she grabs him for a hug. "Who's this?"  
  
Harry removes his hands from his pockets too quickly and almost trips, making his way around Zayn to shake her hand.  
  
"I'm Harry," he smiles.  
  
"Harry," she nods, looking to Zayn with a wicked smile on her face. "I'm Doniya. And that little lady is Bahar."  
  
"She's beautiful," Harry nods. Zayn knows him well enough by now to know he's nervous. Anxious. A little like Zayn gets, to be honest.  
  
"She sure is," Doniya sighs. "I should watch her though, she's going to fall."  
  
Doniya starts to step forward, Zayn about to follow her, when Harry holds his hand out.  
  
"I could," he shrugs. "I could watch her, if you two wanna talk."  
  
"Thanks," she smiles at him, turning to Zayn fully.  
  
Zayn watches Harry trudge through the sand towards Bahar, as she tries in vain to climb up onto the first plastic step of the jungle gym, her doll getting in the way. He gets all the way down to his knees, at her eye level, and speaks to her softly. He holds his hand out to shake hers, as she eyes him warily at first. But then he tilts his head and keeps talking, touches her dress to compliment it, shakes her doll's hand.  
  
It literally takes him twenty more seconds, and suddenly Bahar is tugging his hair, touching his arm, grabbing his hand to climb with her.  
  
Zayn feels his jaw clench a little, at the sight. His stomach swoops as Harry picks Bahar up, fakes like he's about to drop her, Bahar's laughter ringing out like a song, swirling around them and through the trees. He's always been good at sensing when someone's staring at him, so when he turns to see Doniya's knowing eyes, he feels like he got caught with his hand in the cookie jar.  
  
She doesn't say a word until they're seated on the bench, watching Harry hold Bahar in one arm and pull them up the jungle gym with the other.  
  
"He's sweet."  
  
"I guess."  
  
"You like him."  
  
"He's my friend."  
  
"I know you never had many friends, so maybe you're just too stupid to realize," she leans back, putting her arm around his shoulders, her thick hair blowing around into his face. "But that's not a friend."  
  
Zayn leans into her, just a little.  
  
"You think?"  
  
"I know."  
  
"So what do I do?"  
  
Bahar yells something to them from the top of the jungle gym, something Zayn can't make out. She and Harry both hang on to the bars near the slide, looking at them. Harry laughs and tickles her stomach, picking her up again.  
  
"She wants you to watch," Harry calls out, with a shrug, looking down at Bahar's face, her wide eyes staring at him. She nods. He understands her. And children always know when someone understands them. She grabs his face in her little hands and says something else, as Harry nods knowingly.  
  
Doniya grips his shoulder, as Harry sits on the slide with Bahar in his lap. As he starts to push off down the green plastic slide, he whispers to her, and she holds her hands up in the air like it's a roller coaster. Zayn's never seen Bahar so happy, so joyous, not even with him, and he's her favorite.  
  
"I think," Doniya starts, picking up from where they left off before, "that this boy is a good one."  
  
Zayn sighs, because she's right. She's always right.  
  
"And since he's not, in fact, dating your roommate, you need to get your shit together and tell him how you feel."  
  
"What if he doesn't feel the same way?"  
  
"He does."  
  
"How do you know?"  
  
Doniya grips him harder, forcing him to turn his head and look at her, away from Harry and Bahar skipping towards the swings.  
  
"Zayn," she rolls her eyes, "how do you _not?"_

  
»»»

  
Zayn knows he's smart. He's always been smart. Intelligent, of course, but also _smart_ , in the way that he can see his surroundings and understand them, recognize the feelings of others, empathize with those who need someone on their side. He's perceptive. Brilliant, some might say, especially if "some" have the last name Malik, which his mom has always called him, in the company of family friends and coworkers.  
  
Zayn could've been a doctor, he's that smart. He always tested insanely well in math and science, his dad looked into SAT prep courses before he even started high school, got him into summer classes to prepare him for medical school someday. Two of his aunts married doctors and they seemed to be good men with good heads on their shoulders. But luckily for him, Yaser only let himself be disappointed for one weekend, when Zayn came to him with the ad in the paper for a Canon Rebel, the same Canon he still has, asking permission to be a photographer.  
  
In the end, Zayn's smart. So smart. Too smart.  
  
As he stares at his wall in his dorm room that night, after the park and lunch, after kissing Bahar and Doniya goodbye, after Harry came back with him to study for a few hours, he wonders how he could've been so stupid up until this point. Harry had just left, tugging at his jacket with slender fingers and a quick wave, and Zayn can still smell his cologne as he ponders it all.  
  
He was too busy focusing on the plan to actually assess his surroundings, to recognize his own feelings. He's been staring at Harry from the very fucking second he walked into his dorm room, and he's just figuring it out now. He's watched Harry, soaked every ounce of his personality into his brain, and until Doniya explicitly said "you like him," he hadn't recognized it. Zayn almost smacks himself, for being such an idiot. His therapist always said to figure out where his anxiety is rooted, to sift through the sand. And he got too busy trying to be the new Zayn Malik to remember to _not forget the old one._  
  
If he had been looking, if he had been digging deep and listening to himself, his thoughts, his actions, he would've seen it sooner.  
  
Harry told him, that first day, to speak up. To be confident. And even though Zayn had the plan in his mind ahead of time, it wasn't until Harry solidified it that he actually put it to work. Harry made him want to brave. Harry tucked him in. Set his alarm. Let him study in silence, sometimes. Gave him the key back, when Zayn asked. He took care of Zayn after the party. He called Bryce a dick.  
  
And in turn, Zayn wanted to help Harry with math. He gave Harry his fruit when he needed to focus. He got upset when he thought Louis hurt him, got anxious when Harry called him an idiot, felt warm in Harry's sweater. He brought Harry to meet his sister and Bahar, for fuck's sake.  
  
It's been there all along, how he feels for Harry, and Zayn thought for sure that he was too smart to ever be this stupid.  
  
He runs his hand through his hair, staring at his wall of pictures, and wonders where the hell he goes from here.

  
»»»

  
Louis becomes busier than ever, the closer they get to midterms. He sends a text every once and a while, letting Zayn know he's alive, but they rarely cross paths. He's either working in a lab, or studying in one, coming and going from the room in a flurry of notebook papers and laptop cords.  
  
It's a shame, too because after Zayn figured out the Harry situation, it'd be a hell of a lot easier to do something about it if he had Louis to help him.  
  
As it is, he keeps it all to himself.  
  
The Thursday after Halloween, when Zayn made his way into trig, Bryce tugged on his hand and pulled him towards the bathrooms.  
  
"Hey," he smiled, leaning in to kiss Zayn. "Haven't heard from you since Saturday."  
  
"You haven't texted me either," Zayn furrowed his brow, letting Bryce pin him against the wall.  
  
"I got busy. Sorry, babe," Bryce kissed his neck. "Wish we could've spent more time together on Saturday, though. You were so wasted."  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"You wanna come back to the house after class tonight? Make it up to me?"  
  
"No."  
  
Bryce stills at that and leans back, to look Zayn in the eye.  
  
"What?"  
  
"I don't want to."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"You've never asked me a question. Did you know that?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"I think I know all about you, but you don't know anything about me."  
  
"What the fuck are you talking about?" Bryce got angry then, stepping back and away from Zayn entirely, looking at him like Zayn was a mental patient.  
  
"I should go," Zayn grabbed for the door. "Class starts in a minute."  
  
Bryce guffawed behind him, Zayn heard the laugh, the telltale sounds of someone who just got brushed off. It shouldn't make Zayn smile, but it does, the fact that he had the power and wherewithal to end something before it fucked him up, fucked him over. Harry told him Bryce was a dick, and this just proved it. He slid into his seat a minute later, into the one next to Harry, as Harry handed him a cup of coffee.  
  
Zayn realizes then that for every time he's given Harry a snack to focus, Harry's given him a coffee to stay awake. It's just another thing to add to his list of shit he never noticed before. His stomach feels warm as he sips it, as Murphy begins class.  
  
Bryce sits in the front row from then on out, well away from Zayn.  
  
But as they get closer to midterms and Zayn sees less and less of Louis, it also means he sees more and more of Harry. Which is a problem. Because now that he knows, now that Harry's right there, close enough to touch but so fucking far away, he feels the anxiety starting to creep in. It's anxiety over classes and studying, the work load getting heavier, now that they have impending tests. Harry feels it as well, because when he sits on Louis's bed to read, he always runs a finger across his forehead, smoothing his brow-line. But Zayn knows, that more than anything else, this anxiety is over wanting someone, really wanting them, in a real way, someone who could potentially like him back, if he ever felt so inclined.  
  
It's very distracting.  
  
Thank God Harry isn't as good as Zayn at knowing when someone is staring at him, because Zayn catches himself doing it almost constantly.  
  
It's just that Harry's so… Harry. He's tall and lean, with ripped jeans and oversized sweaters that Zayn envisions wrapping himself up in when the snow starts. It's like every other day an inch or two of snow will fall, to slowly melt, teasing the students on campus with a snow day without ever delivering. Sometimes Harry knocks on the door and before Zayn can open it fully, he'll practically fall through it, shaking the snow from his hair and warming his hands over the heater near the window. Zayn usually has to remind him to take his boots off, to keep the melting snow off the floor he walks on in socked feet, and Harry always obliges because he's never not done something Zayn's asked of him.  
  
Harry can be headstrong and tough, can throw swings at anyone who seems to cross him or his friends. But he's also sweet, when he holds a door for a long line of people, nodding to each as they say thank you, a hand on Zayn's back when he walks in last. He recycles. He laughs at jokes that aren't funny, to make people feel good. He makes Zayn feel good.  
  
He even showed Zayn the recording studio in the music building, the one he and his friend Niall write in sometimes, when their heads become too heavy with words. That's how Harry described it, as he made his way around the soundboard, that his head gets so heavy from feelings and emotions from not just himself, but other people. He writes songs about love and heartbreak, the way his dad looks at his mom, the way Louis looks at his sisters, the way a girl looked away from the boy she broke up with, last week in the coffee shop Harry was in. He sees it all and has to capture it somehow. Niall rolled his eyes, said Harry gets too sentimental. But Zayn nodded along. Because he got it. He gets Harry.  
  
Harry blushed when he realized the loving way he spoke about his own songwriting, and Zayn couldn't stop staring.  
  
It's all very distracting.

  
»»»

  
Zayn keeps quiet about all of it, of course he does, because he's great at self preservation. But after midterms are over and he feels like he can breathe again, Doniya must feel a shift in the Force, because she texts him.  
  
_So when are you going to do something about it?_  
  
If he didn't appreciate her so much, he'd probably disown her.  
  
Zayn chooses then, to believe the last project of the semester in Dr. Gregory's class, is just serendipitous enough to be the hand of fate. It's simple, really. He has to photograph various people in his life, people he "values." Gregory explained to them, that it's not about family or love or even closeness, but the feeling of true and unadulterated appreciation.  
  
"You can appreciate the barista who makes your coffee every morning," he paced in front of them, the projector illuminating his face. "You can value the homeless man on the corner, for smiling at you when he doesn't have to. You can appreciate your mom. Or yourself."  
  
Zayn held onto his desk with tight fingers.  
  
"I want to see who you value, and why. I want you to prove to me that you can _see_ value, in all kinds of people, for all kinds of reasons. Because if you can't _see_ people, if you can't present their true worth, you'll never be able to capture them."  
  
Zayn heard Chris, the kid who sits behind him, scoff a little at the heavy-handedness of Gregory's words. But Zayn couldn't help the smile that spread across his face because he couldn't wait. It's like this project was for him, just for him, to not only have the excuse to shoot with all the important people in his life, but actually get credit for it. He was going to put together the best fucking project in the class. He was going to take pictures of Bahar and his sisters and his parents and Louis.  
  
And Harry.

  
»»»

  
November bleeds into December too quickly. The temperature drops just as quickly, each day creeping closer and closer to below-zero. Zayn wears three layers most days when he walks to class, two pairs of socks in his snow boots, and he stills finds himself hovering over the heater each night when he gets in. The only plus side is the way Harry bundles himself like a crab in a shell, a beanie on his head, his hood up, and a scarf wrapped entirely around his face. Zayn has to bite his lips from laughing, every time he opens the door to see the ball of snowsuit known as Harry Styles, nothing but a pair of eyeballs.  
  
"Fuck this snow," Harry huffs one night, stomping into the room, shaking the snow off himself, unwrapping the scarf from around his mouth.  
  
Zayn grabs his gloves and hat, and throws them on the heater.  
  
"How was Bahar today?" he coughs, standing over Zayn's desk to see his open laptop, as he edits each shot.  
  
"So great," Zayn sighs, moving him out of the way so he can sit down again. "She's so good in front of a camera. I swear she knew from birth that she'd have to model for me. She sees my camera and immediately laughs, it's amazing."  
  
Harry grips his shoulder and moves to Louis's bed.  
  
Zayn spins in his chair and looks at him.  
  
"So she's one of the last, right?" Harry settles himself, picking at the lint stuck to his shirt from his Northface fleece. "You already shot with most of your family. And Louis last week."  
  
Zayn stares harder. Harry needs to get better at this, at recognizing when Zayn is looking at him, when he needs Harry's green eyes to meet his own. But Harry keeps picking the fucking lint from his shirt, and then from his jeans, his cheeks pink and rosy, his lips red and chapped, his hair wilting and wet on his shoulders. Zayn stares, waiting.  
  
"I mean, I saw the Louis shots. They looked so good. And if Bahar's were good today, you should have enough, right? To turn the project in Friday?"  
  
Zayn waits.  
  
Harry finally lifts his head to look back at him.  
  
"Are you free tomorrow after the math final?"  
  
Harry bites his lip, smiling.  
  
"For?"  
  
Zayn rolls his eyes.  
  
"Of course I need to shoot you, Haz."  
  
"I figured," Harry gets up and walks over to the heater, next to Zayn. "I just wanted to be asked, is all."  
  
"You're an idiot."  
  
"Oh freshman, you say that as if you didn't already know," Harry smiles.  
  
They lean over the heater, side by side, Harry standing, Zayn sitting, and warm their hands in silence. Zayn feels Harry's toes against his foot and it's like his skin is suddenly on fire.

  
»»»

  
Zayn repeats the plan in his head twice before he lifts the camera and slings it around his neck. Harry put on music when they got into the studio, some mix from his phone, and Zayn realizes about thirty seconds into the first song that it's Harry's music. It's Niall's voice, soft and insistent, but the words are all Harry.  
  
Harry wore a pair of simple black jeans, the ones with the hole in the ass, and a green tshirt. To the outsider looking in, it could be spring time, bright and sunny, snow melting and running off into little brooks across campus. But Zayn sees the flush in Harry's cheeks, the red on the tip of his nose, the telltale signs of winter.  
  
Zayn takes it in, Harry standing in the middle of the studio space, white floor, white backdrop. It's so simple, Harry pops in front of it. He turns in a circle, clapping his hands a little, waiting. He doesn't realize Zayn is ready, can start at any time, as he bounces on the balls of his bare feet. He starts humming, runs a hand through his messy hair.  
  
He seems much more relaxed now that all of his finals are finished, and Zayn envies it, knows once this project is done, he'll be just as light and free. Harry emits light. So much light. He lost his concentration during their math final because he kept stealing glances at Harry, to make sure he knew it all. Zayn's a great tutor, he didn't need to worry, because Harry bit his tongue and filled in every single problem. He looked amazing when he concentrated hard.  
  
Zayn has to shake his head. He has to focus.  
  
"Okay, so… just… look at me for now," he shrugs, nervous.  
  
Harry clears his throat and settles, turns to Zayn, to the camera, and cracks his neck.  
  
"Okay. Tell me what to do. How should I stand?"  
  
"However you want."  
  
"Zayn, you're the photographer. You're supposed to direct me."  
  
Zayn looks down at his camera, to give himself a minute. With his family, there was no direction necessary. He's been taking pictures of them forever. They knew how to stand, how to look at him to give him what he needed. He really does value them, each of them, and he likes to think he captured that. His dad's stoic nature, his mom's manic excitement, the way Doniya stands tall like an old soul, Waliyha's protectiveness, Safaa's endearment, Bahar's innocence. It was all there, plain to see, through his lens, why he loves them. The things they teach him.  
  
Louis didn't have much time when Zayn shot him, in the studio across the hall with the darker backdrop. He stood there and Zayn hardly had to say anything, Louis directing himself, telling Zayn to get his "good side," the laugh lines on the outer creases of his eyes shining through. That's what he values about Louis, the ways he can surprise Zayn, how he can tell him what to do and how to do it, and still come across as nurturing.  
  
But Harry's different. Zayn values so many things about Harry, it's hard to pinpoint which one to focus on, how to tell him, what to do. So he adjusts the shutter, pretends to walk over to the lights to adjust them again.  
  
"Zayn."  
  
He looks up and Harry smiles at him.  
  
"Tell me what to do."  
  
So Zayn nods and steadies himself.  
  
"Okay. So. It's about value."  
  
Harry nods, open and willing, waiting.  
  
"I think I value… Uh, I think what I value about you most, is how you care for people," he looks down at the camera again, takes a breath. "You want everyone around you to feel good, even the people who don't know you personally. And that's… that's a good quality. You have. That I value."  
  
They stare at each other, Niall's voice dipping low, the melody changing slightly.  
  
Harry smiles then, a small one, and Zayn thinks it might be one of his favorites. His instincts take over, his gut reaction sends him over the edge, and suddenly his camera is up in front of his face, clicking wildly. Harry shifts every so often, moves his arm, reaches back to scratch at his neck, but he never looks away. He looks at Zayn through the lens, as Zayn moves to the left, then the right, to get all Harry's angles. But Harry follows him, his head turning every time Zayn moves.  
  
"Don't look at me now," Zayn snaps another. "I need to see you seeing something else. I like… Uh, I value how you view the world. The way you take it in. So I want to do that. Now. Please."  
  
Harry wordlessly turns then, his body shifting, to look over towards the corner.  
  
"Think of something that makes you happy," Zayn whispers, not wanting to shift Harry's focus or face too much.  
  
Zayn moves to his right, to see Harry's profile, to catch the light as it hits him from the side. Harry smiles bigger then, his entire face changes to something bigger, wider. Like he's seeing Disneyland for the first time. Like he's looking down from a plane window, at his hometown, after a long trip away. And then it softens again, his face goes back to normal, a little smaller.  
  
"I value your patience," Harry offers, putting his hands in his pockets, toes curling slightly.  
  
"It's not about me, Haz," Zayn chuckles, bending a little, to catch more of the underside of Harry's face. There's a bit of stubble there, just enough to show up on camera, and Zayn sort of loves it.  
  
"Sure it is," Harry shrugs, Zayn hurrying to catch it, the movement in his shoulders, all Harry. "If you want to see my face, if you want to capture my emotion… This helps me."  
  
"What does?"  
  
Harry turns to him then, but doesn't look at the camera. He looks down towards his feet and smiles.  
  
"Talking about you."  
  
Zayn knows he has it, the one shot that will earn him an A, when his jaw drops and he looks down at the display screen. It's Harry. Head to toe Harry, one arm holding the other, face tilted towards the floor, with the most beautiful expression Zayn's ever seen. It's warm. Content. One dimple showing through, hair in his eyes.  
  
When he looks up from the camera, Harry's standing in the same position, staring at him. There's no urgency to his stance or his words, but suddenly Zayn feels like he's been shot out of a canon. His entire body propels forward at Harry and suddenly he's grabbing his arms to hold on.  
  
Harry kisses him before he can kiss Harry.  
  
It's so soft at first, when Harry's lips press against Zayn's. It's like silk, the way Harry's tongue slips out and runs along his mouth, asking permission. Harry brings his hands up to hold Zayn's face, the older and bigger of the two, taking charge and pushing forward. Zayn lets him. He tilts his face up farther, lets Harry hold him, lets Harry open his mouth. He sighs into it, an exhale he had been holding since September, and Harry sucks it down.  
  
That kiss hits all Zayn's senses at once. It feels amazing, of course, to finally feel the press of Harry's mouth against his. But he can smell his cologne, can hear the sounds they make together, the slick, wet touching of their tongues becoming more intense the longer it lasts. Zayn wants it to last for hours.  
  
Harry pulls back eventually, thumbs on Zayn's cheekbones, eyes roaming across his face.  
  
"Been wanting to do that since I saw you in a towel," Harry smirks, voice low and rough.  
  
Zayn doesn't trust his voice, so he doesn't say anything back.  
  
He smiles, though.

  
»»»

  
Zayn didn't have to say anything after the kiss, about what happens next, because Harry knew. He knew Zayn had his shot, that he captured what he needed, and he knew Zayn had to edit all night. He knew Zayn wanted an A, wanted to wow his professor, and himself. And beyond that, he knew Zayn needed to sit with it.  
  
So once he bundled himself back up, in his layers and coat, the hat and hood covering his curls, right before he wrapped the scarf around his face, he grabbed Zayn by the jaw and held his mouth open to kiss him one last time.  
  
Zayn edited in the computer lab next door, with a hand covering his mouth the entire night, to hold the smile in. He probably looked like a lovesick fool, not that he could help it, looking at photo after photo of Harry's stupidly gorgeous face and knowing it wanted to kiss his own.  
  
They were supposed to turn their projects in on Friday afternoon, on both a flash drive and as hard copies, with a written explanation for each image, the value behind each person, in a labeled envelope. Zayn thought that when he walked to Dr. Gregory's in a sleepless daze, he'd drop it off at the office drop box, and be on his way. Louis had texted him that morning about a party tonight, at a few friends' place he knew from class. And because Zayn accepts invitations now, he couldn't say no. He just wanted nothing more than to nap until well into the night, is all. But he's surprised to see Gregory at his desk, reading with his glasses perched on the tip of his nose.  
  
Zayn stops and wonders if he should put it on the table outside the door, or hand it to him. He bounces it back and forth in his head, when Dr. Gregory looks up.  
  
"Zayn," he smiles, setting his book down to gesture him inside. "You're the first person to turn your final in. Congratulations."  
  
"Oh, yeah. Thanks," Zayn shrugs.  
  
Dr. Gregory takes the envelope, and surprising Zayn again, rips right into it and pulls the contents out, flipping through the black and white images Zayn pieced together just so, in the best order. His dad's close up, the full length shot of his mom wringing her hands slightly. His sisters in the poses they all felt comfortable doing. Bahar's grin, her hands out, grasping for him. Louis pointing right at the camera, laughing at his own joke.  
  
Harry, the perfect shot Zayn knew he'd hang on a wall someday, either on his own, or in a gallery somewhere, it's just that good.  
  
"These are exceptional," Gregory nods, smiling. "Well done. I knew you'd turn in something like this."  
  
"Really?"  
  
"Well… when I give my final project speech at the end of every semester, about finding value in all sorts of people, that's one hundred percent true. And many students go that route, capturing strangers or various acquaintances around them. They come out nicely, usually."  
  
Zayn blinks.  
  
"But it's the special students, with good eyes, who _know_ to capture their family and friends. That's the secret. So, bravo, Mr. Malik."  
  
"Thank you, sir. Really. For this semester. I… I really enjoyed your class. I hope I did well enough."  
  
Dr. Gregory looks up at him, as he puts the photos back into the envelope to grade later, and smiles.  
  
"You know this is A work, Zayn. Well done."  
  
Zayn smiles the entire walk back to his dorm.

  
»»»

  
Louis is there when Zayn busts in the door, snow falling from his boots and shoulders. He's at his desk, huge headphones on, studying for his last final, some paper he has until Monday to finish, well after Zayn will have left for winter break. He had told Zayn that for this specific class, his final grade depended heavily on the final itself, so he was given extra time to work on it. Zayn can tell he's stressed. Overly stressed, much more than normal, so he walks right up behind him and kneads his shoulders.  
  
Louis groans and drops his chin to his chest. Zayn lets him have it for only a few more seconds, before reaching for his headphones and tugging them up and off.  
  
"Zayn, I still have so much shit to do," he sighs.  
  
"I know, I know, I swear. But I have to talk to you. Just for a minute."  
  
Louis sighs again and swivels around, Zayn settling on his bed as he tugs off his jeans and shirt. The room is warm and cozy, and if Zayn could focus on anything other than the present situation, he'd curl right up and take that nap now.  
  
"Okay, let it out," Louis rubs at his temples, shaking his head to focus. "What are you feeling? Let's find it."  
  
Zayn scoffs at that, Louis thinking he's anxious and needs to talk it through. If he didn't know any better, maybe Doniya found Louis's number after all, and told him all about high school. But Louis is just that good of a friend already, it seems. Zayn feels warmer, suddenly. Like he could do something as ridiculous as cry.  
  
"No," he smiles instead. "I'm fine. This… this is a good thing. Well, first off, I aced my photography final. It turned out great."  
  
"That's great. Okay."  
  
"Stop saying okay."  
  
"Fuck off," Louis smiles, crossing his legs. "Go on, then. Let's move it along. And?"  
  
"I kissed Harry."  
  
It rushes out all at once, straight from Zayn's mouth to the middle of the room, curling up like a cat on the little rug Harry bought them. It stretches out, as Louis looks up at him with wider eyes than normal. It's like the three of them cohabitate in their little dorm together, Zayn and Louis and the fact that Zayn kissed Harry.  
  
"You did?"  
  
"I did."  
  
"Did you… what did he say afterwards?"  
  
Zayn furrows his brow slightly, confused. He thought Louis would be surprised, of course, but happy about it. Or at least content with two of his friends being happy together. But it's like Louis knew this already. And is miffed over it.  
  
"He said he wanted to do it since he saw me in a towel," Zayn blushes slightly.  
  
"Fair enough."  
  
"But then he left because I had to edit, and we haven't talked since. So like… what do I do?"  
  
"What do you _want_ to do?"  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
"Did you kiss him because he's hot, or you were horny, or just wanted to say thanks for modeling for you?"  
  
Zayn crosses his arms, annoyed.  
  
"Why would I kiss him for any of those reasons? I kissed him because… because I wanted to. Because… I like him."  
  
Louis assesses him like he did that first night they finally talked, when they didn't know each other and first tried to find common ground. He searches Zayn's face, eyes traveling across the planes of it, back and forth. Zayn lets him, because as a photographer, he sees what Louis needs to do. He's trying to find the truth in it, in him, so Zayn opens his eyes wider and refuses to blink.  
  
Eventually Louis softens, his shoulders relax, and he gets up to step to Zayn.  
  
"Well then, freshman. Good for you," he claps Zayn's arm.  
  
"Really?"  
  
"How about tonight, at the party. You go get him, yeah? For real?"  
  
"Okay," Zayn smiles, excited and exhausted all at once.  
  
"Stop saying that. I hate that," Louis turns back to his desk to settle back in for a few hours. Zayn laughs and throws his blanket over his head.  
  
"Okay."  
  
Zayn sleeps like a dead person until eleven, when Louis shakes him awake to go shower.

  
»»»

  
Even though he hadn't felt the need in awhile, Zayn still texted his parents and sisters that he was going to a party that night. Louis wanted him to go, said that some of his friends Zayn met at the last party even requested that he go. Zayn bit his thumb nail as he sat on his bed, waiting for Louis to finish getting ready, and texted them one after the other, that he was happy. That he couldn't wait to see them on Sunday, couldn't wait to have a few weeks at home to relax and eat too much food together.  
  
He texted a photo of his outfit, but just to Doniya because she asked, of his jeans and Docs, the new jacket he bought on top. She replied with a video of Bahar clapping to music from the day before, and it was just what he needed.  
  
Louis made them take shots of vodka before leaving the room, the bite of liquor settling in his empty stomach a little too quickly, but Zayn's better with drinking now, he thinks. His body knows it's not trying to hurt him, and just wants to help him open up even further.  
  
In the elevator down to the dorm lobby, two girls get on from the eighth floor and Zayn sees them staring at Louis first, and then him. They immediately get out their phones, probably to text each other, and Louis nudges his arm and winks. They look good, Zayn feels good, and even when he stumbles slightly as they walk through the icy streets to the house party, it's with a warm face.  
  
Louis said Harry was going to meet them there, was probably already on his way to shitfaced, since he finished finals the day before and wanted to celebrate. Zayn felt a buzz beneath his skin at seeing Harry again, after their photo shoot, after his A and Louis's blessing and the nap that invigorated him. He wanted to see Harry laid out on a bed, his hair framing his face, Zayn's mouth on his skin. He wanted to be flipped over, Harry's hard body on top of his, maybe using his fingers to do that thing Zayn's only tried on himself a few times. Maybe they could do that tonight, and tomorrow night, and every night eventually. Maybe Harry will give Zayn one of his sweaters to wear all the time. Maybe this night is going to be the best one he's ever had.  
  
Louis must see his face, because as they step across the threshold and start saying their hellos to various people, he tugs Zayn's face into his neck and whispers the best thing Zayn's ever fucking heard.  
  
_You're one of my best friends. Let's kill it tonight, yeah?_  
  
Zayn thinks he whispers it back, that Louis is his best friend too, but his voice might've gotten caught, so he kisses Louis's cheek as back up. Just in case.  
  
Somewhere along the way of the walk through, Zayn ends up with two cups in his hands, one full of vodka and one full of orange soda, which is sort of ridiculous, but Louis takes drinks from each cup and tells Zayn to do the same. He does, over and over, as more people make their way to them. Zayn has so many people hug him and kiss his cheek, he feels about ready to burst. He had a plan for college and it fucking worked, Harry told him to be brave, and now he is, and it's just perfect.  
  
It's perfect.  
  
"This is perfect," he yells at Louis, laughing.  
  
"Aw babe, you're already drunk," Louis drunkenly laughs back.  
  
Louis starts to dance away, right as Zayn coughs up another laugh, the vodka slicing its way down his esophagus a little too fast again. It's bearable though, as Zayn wipes at his face and looks around. Harry has to be here, he must be somewhere. A song kicks in and a few girls near him start dancing, one even rubbing up against his back a little. He smirks over his shoulder and steps away towards the hall leading into the kitchen.  
  
Harry's there, tucked in the corner of the kitchen counters, leaning on it, laughing, two guys on either side of him cracking up along with him. He's drunk, pink cheeks and red lips, like pieces of candy Zayn wants to suck on. He's wearing the black sweater, the one he let Zayn wear after the last party. Zayn never asked him if he undressed himself or if Harry did it for him, sure that either way, Harry was sweet and gracious. He never asked if Harry slept with him in bed, or on the couch downstairs, maybe in a roommate's room. There are so many things they never talked about, even when they spent hours talking some nights, and Zayn wants to curl up under Harry's arm right now and tell him all the things he's thought about since they met.  
  
He wants to smell the cologne on his chest, hear the hitch in his voice when Zayn touches him, see the smirk on his face when he calls Zayn his freshman.  
  
Zayn has to bite at his smile, to keep it steady, as he walks on unsteady feet towards Harry.  
  
But then Harry gets pulled in by the guy on his right, a grip on his shoulders, that has Harry falling against his chest and burying his face in the guy's neck. Another song starts and a few people start dancing, the other guy on his left, older and mature and tall, bigger and better than Zayn could ever be, running his hand up Harry's chest. More people dance around them, a few knocking into Zayn, still as a stone, watching.  
  
Harry lets his body shift between the two guys, laughing, hands on him.  
  
The night doesn't feel so perfect after all.  
  
Zayn can't look anymore, so he quickly turns and walks towards the front door, his legs working too slowly. He locks eyes with Louis right as he pushes past the last few people, Louis in the corner with Ryan Reglin, hands down his jeans. He smiles at Zayn, until he doesn't smile at all, moving towards him to figure out what's wrong.  
  
But Zayn can't say it out loud, not to Louis or himself or anyone, that Harry Styles is in the kitchen with roaming hands on him and the smile Zayn only ever wants to be directed at him. It's not perfect because Harry kissed him after getting his picture taken, after he felt good about himself. He told Zayn he wanted to kiss him after seeing him in a towel all those months ago, because it must just be that, wanting to kiss any attractive guy in a towel.  
  
It hits Zayn clear as anything, even in his drunken stupor, that if Harry had wanted to kiss him, ever, he would've done it already. He did it because Zayn grabbed his arms and leaned in. Harry wants to kiss the guys in the kitchen just as much as he ever wanted to kiss Zayn, which Zayn gets now, is just as fleeting and carefree and impulsive.  
  
It didn't mean anything.  
  
So Zayn leaves before Louis can catch him.

  
»»»

  
Safaa puts in the last DVD of season two of "Grey's Anatomy" and hops back on the couch to join him. Their parents let her watch the ridiculous drama, so long as Zayn or Waliyha promise to cover her eyes during the sex scenes. Waliyha tried to make a fuss about the blood and carnage being more detrimental to a young child's psyche than sex scenes, but it fell on deaf ears.  
  
"We could see a car accident outside right now," their mother pointed out the window, before putting her hands on her hips. "There could be blood running down the block. Is it something we want Safaa to see? No. But do I want her looking out the window to see sexual intercourse? No! So it's definitely worse!"  
  
Zayn had to cover his mouth from laughing, as Waliyha charged after her into the kitchen, to argue her case.  
  
Safaa rolled her eyes and tucked her feet under Zayn's shins, pressing play on the remote. She didn't much care about the sex scenes anyways, and she agreed with Zayn, if they shut up and powered through, they could certainly get through the next few seasons in no time, before he has to return to school.  
  
Zayn tries not to think about school, now that he's home. After he left the party and stumbled back to his dorm, he shoved all the clothes he could get his hands on into his backpack, with his toothbrush and camera, and walked straight to the art building. He fell on the couch in the lounge near the photography studios and swiftly texted his parents to pick him up there first thing in the morning, lying about a last minute edit for his final project. He couldn't see Louis and he definitely didn't want to think about Harry showing up at his door, so he slept there alone, tossing and turning, his mouth dry from alcohol.  
  
That was two days ago, and every time he thinks about his phone up in his bedroom, he pulls his hood up over his head again and tells Safaa to turn up the volume on the TV.  
  
About twenty minutes into the episode, after Waliyha gave up and joined them again, the front door bangs open. Kayan stomps in first, kicking the snow from his boots onto the door mat. Doniya follows, Bahar in her arms, bundled like a little marshmallow with wisps of curly hair flying out from under her hat.  
  
"Look who's here, my baby!" Safaa jumps up first, running to grab Bahar from Doniya.  
  
"Fa Fa!" Bahar claps.  
  
Safaa takes her right to the kitchen, to their mom, and Waliyha follows in a rush, her socked feet sliding on the hardwood floor. Kayan glances at him then, with a small smile, but a look that says, _sorry buddy, don't be mad at me, not my fault._  
  
Zayn sighs at him, the traitor, because he knows it's coming.  
  
Doniya tosses her boots into the corner and throws her coat on the hook near the door, before huffing a breath and falling next to him on the couch. Her face is too set, too _not_ casual, for this little impromptu visit to be for anything other than explicitly his sake.  
  
"Well," she starts, pissed.  
  
"Can we… not do this?"  
  
"I've been texting you since Saturday."  
  
"I left my phone off."  
  
"I realize that, you dunce. I've been texting the girls as well. I know you've been here, stewing."  
  
Zayn shrugs, reaching for the remote, hoping it cues her to leave him alone.  
  
"I've been texting Louis, too…"  
  
Zayn whips his head around, glaring at her from under his hood. Of fucking course she had Louis's number. He knew it. She must've called the school. They all must've called the school, to check up on him before his first fucking day. Melanie at the front desk probably really did give him counseling info, just for him. But he won't let her in, not today, so he crosses his arms and turns back to the TV.  
  
"He said you left. Said you were mad."  
  
Zayn won't look at her.  
  
"He said to tell you Harry tried to find you after that party. After whatever set you off and made you leave."  
  
"So?"  
  
"What happened?"  
  
"Fuck," Zayn sighs, giving up. "Fine. Fine, okay? Harry and I kissed, it was great, I was into it, I wanted him. I was going to tell him so, and then I showed up at the party and Harry was all over these guys, and I was over it. I'm over it."  
  
It's Doniya's turn to shut up. It's a silence not from anger, but from frustration, Zayn knows, because he knows every facial expression Doniya possesses. This one, as she wraps her arm around his shoulder, is how she gets when she's trying to ease him into something he already knows, like when he admitted to liking guys and she explained to him that he literally spent ten minutes the day before staring at her friend Jameel when he got out of their neighbor's pool down the street.  
  
"Did you see him kissing someone else?"  
  
Zayn huffs a breath.  
  
"That's not the point. He was… flirting and he let those guys all over him and he smiled at them like he smiled at me. It's not the same. I like him and however he likes me, isn't the same."  
  
"Zayn."  
  
"Can I watch TV now? Please?"  
  
Once she gets up and heads to the kitchen, the familiar smell of a home-cooked meal and loud laughter filtering in, smacking Zayn in the face, he knows she'll try again later. Or the next day. To get him to open more, to sift through the sand like he knows he has to. But for now, she lets him be, lets him immerse himself into something he can start and stop with the touch of a button.

  
»»»

  
The worst part about winter vacation, besides the fact that Zayn feels like he's in high school again, stuck in his room, hanging out with just his sisters because no one else texted him, is that he can't stop thinking about the feel of Harry's mouth.  
  
The imagination is a funny thing, the way it can trick a person into believing something. Perhaps deep down, Zayn always wondered what Harry tasted like, how his tongue licked his lips and would feel on his own, if he was slow with it, or much too fast. He imagined it the way he imagined being a fireman as a child: would be cool, probably the coolest, but not for someone like me, not in this lifetime. His imagination tricked him into thinking that he could be a fireman, so to speak, could have Harry's mouth on his own, that it was possible and real.  
  
Zayn was always told he had a wild imagination, and he curses it now.  
  
Now that he's had it, he imagines Harry's mouth constantly, Harry's lips and tongue and taste. Every night when he takes the last shower, after everyone's gone to sleep, when he gets a hand on himself, he thinks about the sounds they made, the scratch of Harry's fingernails in his hair and across his cheeks, when they kept going. Zayn's camera bumped against their chests between them, and now he can't look at it without remembering. He hasn't been able to take a single picture in weeks.  
  
He'll be watching TV, or opening non-Christmas presents ("just-for-fun December presents" his mom called them, like she does every year), or getting the mail for his dad, and he'll start thinking about Harry. It's infuriating.  
  
It's all Harry, all the time, even when he thinks about Louis and wonders if he's being a shitty friend by disappearing. Because thinking about Louis means thinking about Louis worrying about him, when he got angry about Harry, and Zayn almost pulls his hair out.  
  
Every orgasm he has in the shower, every stomp of his boots when he kicks off the snow, every time he thinks about his new life and the new Zayn Malik, it's with Harry hovering behind his eyelids.  
  
He even has a dream one night, that he's back in Harry's room, in his bed wrapped in his sweater. They must've slept together, must've finally fucking touched each other, because even in the haze of sleep, Zayn felt that low simmer of contented satiation, felt the marks on his back from Harry's hands. Harry sat at his desk, with a pencil in his hand, two more behind both ears, naked, writing lyrics, as Zayn watched. It may be the most boring and stagnant dream Zayn's ever had, and yet he woke up with a racing heart, red eyes and a dull ache in his chest.  
  
It starts to hurt more than it did, starts to settle further into his muscles, that Harry was right there in his grasp, and it fell apart.  
  
Luckily Doniya doesn't bring it up again, until the afternoon he asks his parents to take him back to school, before the new semester starts. She pulls him in for a hug and runs her hand through his hair, just a little, to settle him.  
  
"Please don't let him go, Zayn. Don't be stupid. Your feelings are valid, I know," she repeats his therapist's old words. "But he wasn't hurting you on purpose and you need to talk to him."  
  
Zayn doesn't respond.

  
»»»

  
Campus is quiet that night, eerily silent and still, which Zayn appreciates.  
  
Zayn asked his parents to bring him back two days early, before the rush of students all head back to their dorms at once, with new presents and beer hidden in their bags, ready for the spring semester. His mom probably wanted to keep him longer, but she rubbed her thumb across his cheek anyway and nodded.  
  
Maybe they knew he needed them to see it, his world while at school, so his parents gracefully sat with him in his dorm for a solid two hours earlier. Zayn didn't say much as far as why he acted so weird over break, more withdrawn and sullen than his texts and excited phone calls over the past few months seemed to suggest. But his dad could tell, saw before his own eyes, that Zayn had a new slice of life on campus, in his dorm surrounded by his pictures and books. His mom even cried a little when they eventually left, hugged him tightly, said how proud they were.  
  
It only occurs to Zayn that night as he looks out over the empty campus, covered in fresh glistening snow, that maybe they assumed he wouldn't want to return to school. Maybe he seemed even worse than he thought over break, tucked up inside himself again like he used to do when the world overlooked him. Doniya must've given them a small bit of backstory, that something set him off right before break, something that cracked his exterior.  
  
He reaches for his phone to text her, to say sorry and thank you, for being there for him. He needs to acknowledge the crack before it widens.  
  
_I'm going to be fine, I promise. I'm back in my room. I'll feel better soon enough._  
  
She didn't respond right away, which Zayn would worry over, except that he knew Bahar probably wanted an extra story or four, read to her in her pink bedroom, her fingers curled in Doniya's hair. She only does it when she's especially tired and calm, exhausted and fawned over, her tiny fingers holding onto whatever thick mane happens to be next to her.  
  
_I know, jaan. Proud of you._  
  
Zayn falls asleep that night in his small bed, wishing Louis were around.  
  
He dreams of Harry again.

  
»»»

  
The walls shake him awake, some sort of explosion in the building, propelling him to sit straight up. The adrenaline rush is almost too much, the blood pumping through his veins alarmingly fast, as he randomly thinks about grabbing his camera first, coat second, and boots third, to run from the building before it collapses.  
  
Zayn's hands are in his hair, as another _boom_ shakes the foundation, as he furiously blinks, to think about a game plan.  
  
"I know you're in there!"  
  
_Boom._  
  
Zayn blinks again, confused, his brain clicking together finally, like an old creaking lock. There hasn't been an explosion, the foundation isn't shaking. It's just a loud thud coming from his door, a slurring voice on the other side of it, pounding away.  
  
"Doniya told Louis, who told me, that you're back already, you fucker," it slurs again. "Open the fucking door."  
  
Zayn stumbles from his bed, in nothing but his favorite pajama bottoms, to throw open the wooden door. Harry comes tumbling in, his body falling backwards, as he was sitting against the door with his eyes closed, banging on it behind his head. He oofs slightly, as his back hits the cold linoleum, his skull a mere inch from smacking against it, as Zayn crouches down, worried.  
  
"Harry?" Zayn croaks, voice unsure, his body parts not used to such a rude awakening, still catching up to his head.  
  
"The fuck else would it be?" Harry slurs, rolling over onto his stomach, slapping Zayn away from him.  
  
"Let me help you," Zayn tries to reach for his arm, to pull him up, as Harry slaps him away again.  
  
"I don't need your help. Don't need you at all, in fact," Harry huffs, crawling now towards Louis's bed. "I was just at my sister's party, with all her older grad student friends and their cool fucking girlfriends, and their wine, and their enlightening conversations."  
  
Zayn's surprised he's getting all this, as Harry crawls slower, hands slapping the floor, hair in his face.  
  
"They asked me, said, 'Hey Harry, where's your boyfriend?' and I said, 'Excuse you, I do not have a boyfriend,' and they said, 'But you talk about that Zayn guy all the time,'" Harry bites his lips, his words getting slower and slower as he pulls himself up onto Louis's bed. "And I said, 'Zayn won't talk to me,' and they said, "That's a shame,' and I said, 'I know, I have to go, Doniya said he's here.'"  
  
Zayn scratches his head, just watching as Harry flops onto his back and ungracefully removes his boots.  
  
"But I do not _need_ you, Zayn," Harry closes his eyes, settling in. "Don't need you at all. You were supposed to be at the party weeks ago, I was so excited to see you after our kiss, and then you fucking bailed and never talked to me. So I don't need a thing, honestly."  
  
"Harry."  
  
"Just need Lou's bed, thank you. Goodnight."  
  
"Harry," Zayn tries again, voice harder.  
  
Harry shifts his head only slightly, cracks one green eye open to stare at Zayn, petulantly like Zayn's the one interrupting _his_ sleep cycle. His red beanie fell off his head when he toppled through the door, his hair a mess around his face, his lips red from the cold. He didn't even take his jeans and coat off, which Zayn knows more than anything else means he's too drunk for this conversation.  
  
And it will be quite the conversation, Zayn knows about then. Because he's spent weeks dreaming of Harry, thinking about every little faction of him, all the parts that add up together like a fucking math problem, and it never occurred to him that he could actually tell Harry that. He never thought he could open his mouth and admit that, in just a few sentences, like Harry just did with him. _You talk about that Zayn guy all the time._  
  
It must dawn on Harry at the same time, because his other eye snaps open and they both widen, much too large and imposing for such a tired human being on the verge of passing out.  
  
"Zayn," he responds, his shoulders bouncing up to his ears, not knowing what to do.  
  
Zayn also knows that his winter break did more for him that he realized. Because maybe it was needed, necessary, for him to truly meld the old Zayn Malik and the new Zayn Malik into the same person. He's the new version of his old self then, as he grabs Harry's hand and pulls him against his body. They fall onto Zayn's bed together, their heads on Zayn's pillow, close and scrunched, Harry's cold nose against Zayn's cheek. The old Zayn would never be so bold. And the new Zayn's heart beats too fast, too out of control, his anxiety starting to creep in at what's happening.  
  
Harry brings a wobbly hand up, right as his foot winds around Zayn's calf, and puts it on Zayn's chest.  
  
"You don't hate me, right?"  
  
"Never."  
  
"You believe me, right?"  
  
Zayn turns his head to smell Harry's hair, the shampoo that sometimes lingers in his dorm room right alongside Harry's cologne. Harry's trying to tell him something, that he really does talk about Zayn all the time. He wants Zayn, wants him completely. Zayn knows, Zayn believes him, but Harry is drunk and this should be something to talk about sober.  
  
"Go to sleep, Haz," Zayn whispers, pulling him closer to ease him.  
  
"Missed you," Harry exhales, eyes fluttering shut.  
  
"Missed you, too."

  
»»»

  
Zayn wakes up first, not even prompted by his phone or an alarm, just wakes up easy as anything. Harry's in almost the same position, entire body curled around Zayn's like he's a stuffed animal and Harry can't sleep without him.  
  
He uncurls Harry's arm from his waist and slips out of bed, feet hitting the frigid floor, hissing slightly. He glances at Harry and realizes he must be burning up, still in his jeans, sweater, and coat. So as quietly and gently as he can, he does the zipper and slips the denim down and off his legs; tugs at the coat on one arm until it slips off and Harry rolls slightly, to remove it; and the sweater comes off last, until Harry's rolling over to face the wall, in Zayn's bed in just his briefs.  
  
They're striped red and green, with a massive dancing Santa Claus on the ass. Zayn has to hold his palm against his mouth, to keep himself from laughing at the ridiculous person he wants to kiss awake, this morning, tomorrow morning, every morning.  
  
But he doesn't because it's much too early. He doesn't even know what to do with himself, it's so early, so he decides to go to the coffee shop only a block away to get breakfast. He belatedly decides to text Doniya, and Louis, to leave him alone, as he trudges through the snow that fell over night.  
  
_Harry's here. I'm working on it._  
  
They both respond with smiley faces, the twits.  
  
Harry wakes up as Zayn gingerly opens the door, two cups of coffee in his hands, the bag of muffins between his teeth. Harry's just sitting up, rubbing his eyes, as Zayn kicks off his boots.  
  
"Hey," Harry croaks, stretching slightly.  
  
"Hey," Zayn nods, handing him a cup.  
  
"Thank you."  
  
"Course."  
  
It's not an awkward silence, not by a long shot, since Harry rarely lets the space he inhabits be awkward. But it is silent, and since Zayn can sit in silence no problem, it reaches further. Zayn bites at his muffin, Harry staring daggers at him.  
  
"Didn't know if you like your pastries heated or not," Zayn shrugs. "But I figure it's cold out, so."  
  
Harry bites into his own.  
  
"S'good," he mumbles, looking down at his hands. "But I should go soon."  
  
Zayn stops chewing.  
  
"Why?"  
  
"What do you mean, why? You don't really want me here, I assume."  
  
"Why do you assume that?"  
  
"Because you're not saying anything."  
  
"I'm always not saying anything," Zayn furrows his brow, knowing he doesn't exactly make sense.  
  
Harry smiles at that, because it's true, Zayn's way with words being shaky at best.  
  
"I just…" Harry exhales, searching. "I know I shouldn't have come here last night, barging in, angry at you for not speaking to me. I mean, I'm still confused and a little pissed that you kissed me and then left without a word, but… I shouldn't have come and blown up on you."  
  
"You didn't."  
  
"Yes I did."  
  
"Well yeah, you did. But… I'm glad. I'm glad you're here," Zayn's cheeks redden.  
  
Harry's entire body language changes then, more alert. He blinks a few times, almost excitedly, reaching for their coffee cups and muffins, practically tossing them to Zayn's desk to clear their space. Suddenly he's tugging Zayn's arm and they're sitting closer, looking at each other, like something's about to happen.  
  
Harry smiles, his fingers grip Zayn tighter.  
  
"So we can talk? Finally?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"You said you're glad I'm here. You're opening up, I can tell. Doniya said you would," he bites his lip.  
  
"Goddamn it, Doniya," Zayn rolls his eyes.  
  
But he does shove Harry over slightly, climbing under the blanket so their thighs touch. Zayn can practically feel the buzzing energy beneath Harry's skin, the electric current suddenly surging through him.  
  
"Don't be mad," Harry grips his leg then. "At her, or me. Or Louis even, for giving me Doniya's number."  
  
Zayn just huffs at that. It's not exactly new, the people in his life talking about him, worrying and texting, fussing over his thoughts and actions like he's about to throw himself in front of a train. His dad used to have Zayn's therapist as the top name in his phone, his mom used to text Doniya almost hourly, to make sure she's kept up with Zayn. Even Safaa and Waliyha used to cling to him after school, their hands on his shirt sleeves, asking about his day in sweet, calming voices.  
  
"I'm not."  
  
"She said I had to tell you all of it, once you opened up."  
  
"All of what?"  
  
"The truth, everything I've ever thought about or wondered, the things I just kept to myself because I thought I should. She said… she said you saw me at the party, and that you needed to understand it, that you need things laid out in front of you sometimes, like pages you can flip through."  
  
Zayn crosses his arms, hating that Doniya knows him more than he knows himself.  
  
"I think I wanted you the second you told me to keep my hands to myself," Harry rushes out.  
  
Zayn looks at him, confused.  
  
"When I wanted to touch your pictures. I like to touch things, I guess. You said not to touch them, and I lied and said I wasn't going to, and I think it was then. I listened to you, I stopped and backed off. Even then, you made me follow directions and I think I needed it."  
  
Zayn stares at him.  
  
"You wouldn't let me have a key. You made me study for trig, you brought me fruit. You were so upset when you thought Louis was cheating on me, you couldn't keep in it for thirty seconds. You found me, put me in bed, and told me the truth. Bryce wanted you, he fucking _craved_ you, and only a few days after you woke up in my bed, after you let me meet Bahar, you made him leave you alone. Don't you see?"  
  
"See what?"  
  
"We were right there, Zayn. You wanted me then. I wanted you then. We were right there."  
  
"But why…" Zayn shakes his head, confused.  
  
After they kissed in the studio, Harry said he wanted to kiss Zayn after he saw him in the towel. If Harry wanted him then, if he wanted him all along, why didn't he do anything about it? Why did he flirt with those guys at the party? Why does he even want Zayn at all?  
  
Harry grabs his face then, forcing Zayn to turn his body, to get closer.  
  
"You had a new life to start. You needed to find your way, study, learn, let a guy in class flirt with you shamelessly. You needed to get drunk at a party and wake up in a strange room. You needed… you needed to see it all. I wanted you to do all that shit, be a freshman, and still want me. I wanted _you_ to want _me_ , Zayn."  
  
Zayn bites his lip.  
  
"I always did," he tries to smile, his face too red.  
  
Harry kisses him then, softly, their lips warm and wet, making those sounds again.  
  
"Good," Harry pulls back to say, smiling.  
  
"I just… I never had friends, you know? I never had people, or acquaintances, or anyone giving a shit. And even when you acted like you did, I didn't know. I just didn't… know."  
  
"I know."  
  
Zayn moves back to stare at him.  
  
"If you had friends, true friends, great ones, we would've known, Zayn. Lou and I both. Because anyone who knows you would want to call you every day, ask your advice, see how you were. I just… I knew. You needed to see it all first, be great on your own, stand tall."  
  
Zayn kisses Harry. Harder.  
  
"You're my freshman," Harry finishes, tugging on Zayn's hair, lips moving to his jaw.  
  
"Yeah," Zayn whispers, eyes closing.  
  
Harry bites at Zayn's ear, breath hot and insistent against his skin. They haven't said everything yet, they don't have all the answers. But Zayn feels like he's on fire, like a burning star, with Harry in his grasp. Finally.  
  
Without breaking apart, Harry nudges Zayn back to lay down, mouth on his ear, across his jaw, up his chin, back to his lips. They taste each other, the coffee and muffins creating a sweetness until suddenly, it's just the taste they make together, slick and wet.  
  
Harry leans back to carefully slide his hands up under Zayn's sweatshirt, the one he slipped over his bare chest when he left earlier. He tosses it to the floor and stares at Zayn, eyes raking up from his waist to his chest, across his shoulders, before landing on his face.  
  
He smiles and shakes his head, like he can't believe it, eyes traveling the same journey again, and then again. Zayn's heart races but he lets Harry look.  
  
"Just as good as I remember," he whispers, fingers tracing the lines of Zayn's pecs, appreciating, the tips of his fingers finally rubbing at his nipples.  
  
Zayn shivers at the sensation, a brand new one, as he squirms. He looks at Harry on his knees above him, in those stupid fucking Christmas briefs, and it takes everything he has not to cross his arms and look away out of embarrassment.  
  
"I found you at that party," Harry runs his hands up to Zayn's neck, then down his ribcage to his jeans. "You were in the hallway, slumped against the wall."  
  
Zayn's breath hitches when Harry peels his jeans off, joining his sweatshirt on the floor. Harry palms at his thighs, not touching him through his briefs yet, even though he's hardening by the second, ready, waiting, nervous.  
  
"I was worried, you know? I thought you had alcohol poisoning or something. Or like… maybe Bryce hurt you," Harry finally leans down, settling between Zayn's open legs.  
  
He kisses Zayn's neck again, slowly, biting a little, tongue searing Zayn's skin like a lick of fire.  
  
"But when I lifted you up, you mumbled, you were still there. You said my name and it was the most beautiful fucking sound I've ever heard, the way you said it. You said, 'Can we go home?' and I almost kissed you, I swear."  
  
Zayn's brain finally sends the signal to his hands, to touch Harry, to explore Harry's body the same way Harry's exploring his. He grips Harry's hips first, feels the skin he's been thinking about since that first day when Harry bent over and showed Zayn the hole in his jeans. Harry's so solid, so firm, his back rippling but soft, and Zayn skirts his nails from his shoulders down to the line of his briefs, and Harry inhales sharply.  
  
But he shakes his head, hair getting in Zayn's mouth, and bites Zayn's clavicle, to focus.  
  
"But I couldn't kiss you like that, not drunk, not when I was jealous. I wanted you to want it, too. I needed you to grab for me, you know? So I got you to my house, got you to my room, and you just… you just took off all your clothes. I couldn't even move, I swear I tried not to watch. But I…" Harry hisses when Zayn's fingers shove down his briefs to grip his ass.  
  
Zayn feels the flesh under his palms and ruts up, his cock throbbing, Harry's right there against him. He has to squint, has to shut his eyes, to stop from nutting right then and there.  
  
"I just…" Harry tries again, grinding down against Zayn. "I couldn't stop looking. I watched you. And you shivered, you almost fell into my bed. But before you did, you grabbed for my sweater on my chair and put it on. You just… you slipped it on and then got into my bed, and that was it."  
  
"Did you sleep there with me?" Zayn whispers, too curious not to, hands running from Harry's ass, towards the front, still under his briefs. Harry whines, high in his throat, as Zayn's hands explore the hot skin, the rough hair at the base of his dick.  
  
"I slept on the couch."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"I didn't trust myself not to curl up with you," Harry leans back to look him in the eye. "I would've wanted you in the morning, I know it. I would've kissed you. I would've tried."  
  
"I would've let you," Zayn whispers, kissing him, deeply again, tongue insistent and harsh.  
  
Harry goes into overdrive then, hands gripping Zayn's hair, rutting against him in a steady rhythm. Their clothed dicks rub together almost painfully, and if Zayn didn't know any better, Harry could cry it's so good. So he does what he thinks will help them both out, and touches Harry, finally. He reaches into his briefs again and pulls out his cock, hard and thick, wet at the tip, Harry's entire body almost collapsing on top of him.  
  
"S'at good?" Zayn wonders, hoping he's doing it right, wrist turning.  
  
Harry can only nod above him, hair in his eyes, legs squirming. Zayn only lets go to get his own cock out, the relief immediate when it's out from under his briefs, getting a hand on them both. Harry groans, so fucking deep and low, Zayn's sure he can feel it bone deep. Harry has to lean down again, propped up on his forearms, as Zayn gets them off together, their cocks sliding too roughly.  
  
Harry nods frantically into Zayn's neck, the only warning he has, so Zayn pumps his hand faster, his toes curling. Harry bites his neck, just a small one, and suddenly Zayn's coming first, thick spurts up and over the head of his cock, landing on his abdomen, his breath punching out of him into Harry's hair.  
  
"Fuck," he grunts, harshly, the last of it dripping down his hand onto Harry.  
  
Zayn's voice is what does it, maybe it's the knowledge that Harry helped get him there, because then Harry's coming, hard and fast into Zayn's hand, making more of a mess between them. His entire body tenses, his moan caught somewhere between Zayn's shoulder and his ear, etching into his skin like a brand. It's the most delicious sound he's ever heard up close, right there against him, and he can't help it, he has to slide his hand down Harry's cock a few more times, to see what else he can pullout of him. Harry's back arches as he comes down, the sensation too much. But he lets Zayn keep going, lets him explore, his teeth snapping together.  
  
"So good," Zayn exhales, right as Harry eventually rolls off him.  
  
They lay side by side, heaving, their come cooling on Zayn's stomach much too quickly.  
  
"Lou is gonna kill us," Harry eventually says, grabbing Zayn's hand.  
  
"Why?"  
  
"After we left that first day, after I poked my head back in the door to invite you out with us and you said you were busy," Harry smiles, nuzzling closer. "He made me swear we'd never get off in his dorm. Said it'd smell like jizz for days."  
  
They end up laughing so hard, they almost fall off the bed.

  
»»»

  
Zayn's sure they won't leave the dorm until everyone comes back to campus, when the halls become loud and excited again, at the prospect of a new semester, at seeing all their floor mates again. Even though he's itching to see Louis, to have his friend back, he's sure they won't even get dressed until classes start up on Monday, except to maybe throw on towels to go down to the showers, to lather up and jerk each other off in a stall, their shoes squeaking. Zayn even comes up with a plan, to order pizza and get two extra, just so they have food for the next day or so, when Harry surprises him.  
  
Zayn wakes up from their nap, stretching in his bed, naked and more comfortable than he's ever been in his short little life, to see Harry in the middle of the room, putting on clothes.  
  
"Where are you going?" Zayn shrugs, pretending like it doesn't hurt, to see Harry leaving him so soon. He thought they would talk more, spend time alone and curled together, for hours upon hours.  
  
But Harry just smiles as he wraps his scarf around his neck.  
  
"We," Harry flicks a finger between the two of them, "need to get dressed. I promised my sister I'd meet her at the library this afternoon. And you need to meet her."  
  
Zayn blinks twice.  
  
"You heard me. Up," Harry smirks. "I met your sister, seems only fair that you meet mine."  
  
And that's exactly what Gemma Styles says to Zayn, when they walk into the library thirty minutes later, huffing from the trek through the thick end-of-December snow. Right as Zayn tugs off Harry's red beanie, the one he swiped before Harry could, to cover his ears from the biting chill, a girl who looks eerily like Harry waves them over to a table.  
  
"Harry said he met your sister," she shakes his hand, "so it's only fair that I get to meet you. Finally."  
  
Zayn blushes under her gaze, all fierce and protective, a lot like Doniya's.  
  
But then he notices that Harry blushes harder than he does, at the _finally_ , so he reaches his other hand out and touches Harry's lower back. It settles them both, to touch again. After the general older-sister-questions, after she nods at him and smiles, accepting him, Zayn stays mostly silent, as the Styles siblings start babbling about classes starting again. They act like they hadn't just seen each other the night before, Gemma snarking about how her classes are much harder than Harry's. She's in grad school, hers are weighted differently, and Harry takes "easy" classes anyhow.  
  
Zayn listens, laughs in all the right places, before his eyes flick over towards the far stacks, at Abby Leahy reaching for a book on a high shelf. He excuses himself to head over to her, one of the nice girls from his photography classes, to say hello. He helps her get the book and asks about her break, her eyes lighting up as she talks about all the pictures she took back home in Iowa. Zayn admits he didn't take any, but doesn't go into why, but Abby seems nice enough and lets it be.  
  
It's as she reaches for her camera to show him, when he looks back over at Harry and Gemma, when his stomach drops.  
  
A guy, some stocky kid with a thick beard and a backwards hat, sits on the table now, with Harry next to him. He laughs at something Gemma says, much too loudly for the fucking library, and reaches a hand to Harry. It's playful, flirty, as he shoves Harry's shoulder, gripping him. Harry eats it up, leans in, waving his hands around to tell a story, and Zayn wants to leave out the back door. He's thinking about his exit strategy, this place much harder to extricate himself from than the party before Christmas. He'd have to walk past them to leave.  
  
But he can't watch Harry flirt again, can't watch him smile and laugh at another guy, not after they did more than kiss in an empty studio, not after their night.  
  
He's just about to tell Abby he has to leave, is about to turn to her, when Harry looks over at him, eyes lit up.  
  
They lock eyes. Zayn blinks. Harry's smile falls, immediately, fast, until he's up and out of his chair like a fucking rocket, weaving his way through empty tables to get to Zayn.  
  
"Zayn," he starts, grabbing for his hand.  
  
Zayn tries to shake him off as he gives a quick goodbye to Abby, tries to dart around Harry, but Harry's bigger than him, taller, and stops him. Abby gets out just in time, scurries off with her camera and the book Zayn retrieved, as Harry shoves him deeper down the aisle of books they're next to.  
  
"Let me go," Zayn huffs, Harry shoving him back harder.  
  
"Stop."  
  
"You stop. I want to leave," Zayn shoves back.  
  
"No," Harry grunts, fierce, eyes angry.  
  
Zayn doesn't understand how Harry can be the upset one at the moment, and is just about to open his mouth to hiss it at him, when Harry holds a finger up.  
  
"Shut up. I will not let you do this," he points.  
  
Zayn crosses his arms.  
  
"Just because I speak to another guy, doesn't mean I don't want to be speaking to you. Just because I laugh and joke, with other people, doesn't mean that you aren't the one I want to laugh and joke with every night."  
  
Zayn tries to shove him away again, but Harry pushes him back against the stack of books.  
  
"Stop acting like I don't want you, like every time I speak to someone else, it means I don't want to speak to you. I want you."  
  
Zayn thinks it about then, with Harry's intense gaze drilling into his eyes, that he's smart. He's always been smart, perceptive, brilliant. And yet he's also the dumbest idiot to walk the earth, to let himself think and believe that Harry Styles is anything other than genuine and honest. He had Harry on top of him mere hours before, moving and shaking at his core from Zayn's hand, and he almost fled the library because Harry laughed at a joke.  
  
But it's that old Zayn Malik rearing his ugly head again, the boy from high school who let people in during group projects, let his mom make them food, let them see his bedroom and his photography collection, hoping and praying that he'd have someone to sit with at lunch, only to be ignored once a teacher handed them an A. It's like the kid from middle school who never got picked during gym somehow infiltrates Zayn's brain, the new Zayn Malik's brain, at the worst possible moments.  
  
So Zayn exhales a sharp breath, right as Harry brings his hands up to his shoulders, holding on, willing him to understand.  
  
Harry didn't not want him at the party, just like he didn't not want him now. Harry's told him, showed him, how much he wants this. So Zayn surges forward and kisses him, grabs at Harry's sleeves to hold on for dear life, and presses him up against the opposite book shelf. He puts everything into it, the _sorry_ and the _don't let me go just yet,_ and Harry listens because he grips Zayn's hips and kisses back.  
  
It's like they have a rope around them, they're so close, so melded together, Harry's sister and friend forgotten. All of a sudden new Zayn Malik takes over completely, as he breaks away to grab Harry's hand and tug him into the far corner of the library, the one where they store all the old dictionaries and maps of the world, the hidden corner Zayn's sure no one will venture into. He shoves Harry against the dusty stacks of books and drops to his knees.  
  
"Holy shit," Harry whispers, as Zayn fumbles with his belt.  
  
"You gonna let me?" Zayn tilts his chin up, to see Harry's scrunched face, his fist in his mouth.  
  
Harry just nods, hair flying wildly.  
  
Zayn tugs at Harry's zipper and shoves his face at the thin fabric covering Harry's hardening dick, the briefs Zayn recognizes as his own, smelling like his detergent. It makes him dizzy, the breath he huffs out, warm and minty from toothpaste, the fact that Harry's wearing his briefs and Zayn's about to have someone in his mouth for the first time.  
  
Harry reaches for his own beanie on Zayn's head and pulls it off, his other hand resting on the side of Zayn's face, like he understands.  
  
"You don't have to," he whines, Zayn's fingers reaching to pull the elastic band down.  
  
"Want to," Zayn licks his lips.  
  
Harry's cock practically smacks Zayn in the face, Zayn having forgotten how stupidly thick it is. He vaguely remembers the conversation he had with Louis, drunk and stupid, when he first wondered about how big Harry was. He was right, so right, as he gets brave and licks a long stripe from base to tip, Harry's fingers tightening in his hair.  
  
It's warm skin, tastes just how Zayn expected, smooth and inviting. He realizes this is what he's been waiting for ever since he first looked at a boy and wanted to touch body parts that looked like his, body parts he knew and trusted. He trusts Harry more than anything and sucks the head into his mouth, tasting further, his tongue swirling, hand wrapped around the base. Harry scuffs a boot on the floor, almost kicks his foot out from want and need, and Zayn sinks down an inch to keep him sane.  
  
Harry holds tight, but not too tight, as Zayn works him through it, as he tests the waters further and further, to see how far he can go, how much of Harry he can take. If Harry wants him all the way, he wants Harry just as badly, just as much. He focuses, breathes through his nose, sinks another inch, lips raw.  
  
"You look…" Harry tries to speak, hoarse, quiet so no one hears. "I just…"  
  
Zayn slides off him then, has to, to look up and see him fully.  
  
"Come in my mouth," he whispers, voice practically gone already. "Wanna see if I can do it."  
  
Harry nods, hair flying, fingers at the base of his cock, feeding it back into Zayn's waiting mouth slowly. Zayn grabs the back of Harry's thighs and goes slow, tongue swirling at the head again, before taking him, all of him, until his nose brushes Harry's skin. He hears Harry curse, feels his fingernails at the base of his skull, and it's everything. He can do this, he decides, relaxing his throat. He sucks, creates a tight suction with his cheeks, and bobs up and down.  
  
Zayn knows more than anyone that all a person is, all a person has, is the face they show to the world. It's who a person is when they step outside their front door, whether it be shielded by a mask or true expression, a fighting stance or an easy walk. But it's right there for everyone to see, the ways in which a person presents themselves and lets people in. Zayn used to keep himself locked up tight, could never be like Harry who lets his face do all the talking before his mouth can. Gorgeous, open Harry who lets the world see his laugh, who gives everything away, is now above Zayn practically crying from lust, from Zayn's mouth, and only Zayn gets this, right now, this second. Only Zayn gets to see the other Harry, the best fucking version there is, writhing and begging for it, for Zayn.  
  
Zayn could do this for another hour, he swears it, could do it all day, every day, if Harry wants him to. So he sucks harder, his nails digging into Harry's flesh, and moans with it, the need to please Harry every way he can.  
  
Harry comes in his mouth, his leg kicking out again, gasping. It fills Zayn up, he feels the heat surging down his throat like a trickle as he swallows around it, swallows Harry, only a little dribbling out of his mouth. When he sits back on his heels, gasping for air, Harry has his eyes closed. He wordlessly swats his hand out, trying to find Zayn again, gripping his shoulder to pull him up.  
  
Zayn has to lean his forehead against Harry, as he breathes through it. When they open their eyes, Harry smirks and lifts his hand, his thumb wiping the come from Zayn's lip. Without thinking, Zayn sucks it into his mouth, licking it clean. Harry's eyes darken even more than before, as he shoves his hand into Zayn's jeans to pull him off. It doesn't last long, which Zayn is almost grateful for, seeing as how they're in public and all.  
  
They walk back to the tables near the front of the library, adjusting their clothes, smoothing their hair, to see Gemma and her friend gone. She must've realized they went off to be alone somewhere tucked in the stacks. In Gemma's place, there on the wooden table carved with various initials, is a single piece of paper with just one word. It sends Zayn into hysterics, Harry's cheeks flaming red.  
  
_GROSS._

  
»»»

  
If Zayn were a bigger person, he'd admit that Doniya being right isn't the most terrible thing in the world. But he's not, and when she is right, she's insufferable. She won't let Zayn forget it, that she called from day one that Harry was right there all along, waiting for Zayn to catch up.  
  
She texts him almost every day in January (and four times on his birthday alone), to see how he is, no longer worried, but just to check in on his new life. She asks about Harry constantly. Harry loves it because he told Zayn one night, after he got off the phone with Doniya and Bahar, that his face gets soft when he talks about him.  
  
"I always know when you're talking about me," Harry mumbled against the back of his neck as they tried to fall asleep that night, after blowing each other into oblivion like they do every night. "Your face does this thing, the thing mine does when I talk about you."  
  
"You're a fucking sap," Zayn reached behind himself to smack Harry's leg.  
  
"You love it."  
  
Zayn had to bite his lip at that, as Harry nuzzled closer and exhaled the one big breath he always exhales, right as he drifts off. It's like clockwork with Harry. He complains about the fan Zayn needs on to sleep, he kisses Zayn's shoulders, left then right, and then says the last thing he's thinking right into Zayn's neck. More often than not, the last thing Harry thinks about either has to do with food, when he'll wake up Zayn in the morning, or Zayn himself.  
  
And yeah, Zayn realizes then, he does love it. He loves all of it. It hits him like a truck.  
  
The irony is not lost on Zayn, that he has likened Louis Tomlinson to a truck in the past, the way he can burst into a room and blast anything in his path. He careens into spaces like a mad man in a stolen vehicle, like a man on a mission to fuck up everyone around him, which terrified Zayn at first and now makes him feel like an accomplice.  
  
It hits him like a truck a second time, when Harry's in class and Louis actually comes back to the land of the living and removes the headphones he's been wearing for three hours. Zayn has to study for an English quiz and barely notices Louis has "unplugged" until Louis whistles to get his attention, Zayn's entire body snapping into focus.  
  
"Jesus, what?" he laughs, rubbing his eyes from exhaustion, before picking up his highlighter again.  
  
"Haz should be back soon," Louis cracks his back.  
  
"You want to order food? I bet he's hungry. And you clearly haven't eaten all day."  
  
"No, I'm fine."  
  
"Okay."  
  
"Why haven't you asked him to be your boyfriend?"  
  
Zayn slowly raises his head to look at Louis, sitting at his desk, assessing him like he's a test subject in a lab. Zayn wouldn't even be surprised if Louis got out a notebook, to scratch down the body ticks Zayn can't hide when under such an intense stare.  
  
"I didn't…" Zayn tries, confused. "I guess I didn't know I had to. I thought we…"  
  
"You're an idiot. In case I haven't told you lately."  
  
"Why do people keep saying that?"  
  
"Harry tells me everything. He told me everything he said to you, when you both finally pulled your heads out of your asses. He wants you to want him, unconditionally. It's like… it's this thing he has, where he doesn't always believe that people want him, you know? Because he's so… Harry, you know?"  
  
Zayn blinks twice.  
  
Louis rolls his eyes.  
  
"You're not the only person on the planet with insecurities, Zayn. Remember?"  
  
Zayn tosses his books to his desk, his head falling back against the wall behind his bed. He wants Harry to come back, it's easier when Harry's around, to figure out how he feels, to sift through the sand.  
  
"He's affectionate and sweet. People love that about him. But he's never had a serious relationship, no one's ever asked, and just because you're the freshman virgin, doesn't mean Harry has all the answers."  
  
"Jesus, Lou," Zayn's cheeks redden, embarrassed.  
  
"Tough love, babe."  
  
"So I need to ask him?"  
  
"You do," Louis nods, before turning back to his desk, grabbing for his headphones. "And make it romantic and shit, he likes that."  
  
"Okay."  
  
"Shut up."

  
»»»

  
Zayn thinks it's the final piece of his puzzle, the final nail in his coffin, of becoming the new Zayn Malik. It's what he needs to do, to truly be the person he wants to be, the person who can walk into a room and not light it up, but maybe just warm it some, like a cup of coffee between two cold hands. It's what he needs to do, to complete the process, to flourish as an adult, to pay it forward.  
  
He had a plan for college, one he wrote on the back of a print, to be cool and amazing and better than ever. His plan was always to squash the voice in his head that made him feel inadequate, to rid himself of the anxiety, to diminish the people around him who make him feel small. The plan was to be great, to excel and soar, on his own if he had to, but maybe with a group of friends who make him feel needed.  
  
But the plan never would've worked without Harry, Zayn knows that now. He's strong, he could've survived his freshman year unscathed, sure. But he never would've been brave enough to talk to Bryce, to get to know Louis, to stop repeating the plan in his head on a loop, had Harry not told him to that very first day.  
  
Harry was always the catalyst.  
  
Zayn knows now, he needs to make Harry believe, make Harry the focus, just like Harry did with him for months on end. Harry told him once, that he just wants people to want what he can give. Harry drops pieces of himself like bread crumbs and Zayn wants to be the only one to pick them up, the right way, like Harry did for him.  
  
Zayn comes up with a new plan, after Louis reminds him.  
  
So he texts Harry first, to say he'll be picking him up at his house that Friday night for his birthday, and to dress nice. Then he remembers to actually text Doniya, to see if he can borrow Kayan's car. He promises he'll babysit Bahar soon, which he didn't really need to do, because even through her moaning and groaning about being without a car for the night, he can hear her smile and her feet stomping in the kitchen, like she does when she gets especially excited. He told her then, and then texted every single person in his family, that he loved them all. And thanks for looking out for him all those years.

On his way out the door, Louis pulled him in for a tight hug and kissed his cheek.

"Go on, freshman. Have fun and sweep him off his feet," Louis smacked his ass, shoving him away. "I won't wait up."  
  
Soon after, Zayn pulls at his leather jacket and straightens his shirt a little, as he walks up the path to Harry's house. It's obscenely small for the amount of boys who rent it together, Harry's window illuminated up on the third floor, the one with the sloped ceiling and sheet music tacked to every surface. Zayn can see a shadow moving through the room, back and forth. He can't help but smile when he rings the doorbell.  
  
Niall answers, the door practically flying off its hinges, he throws it open so fast.  
  
He smiles wickedly and crosses his arms.  
  
"Zayn Malik. Don't you look fancy," he wiggles his eyebrows. "Long time no see."  
  
Zayn just laughs, not only because he saw Niall yesterday, but because he should've expected this. He's pretty sure if it were the other way around, Louis would be doing this same stupid schtick to Harry, for fun.  
  
"Go on then," he rolls his eyes, as Niall lets him in.  
  
"Zayn, do you plan on respecting our dear Harry tonight? Protecting his virtue? Keeping your grubby little hands to yourself?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"And do you promise to drive safe and bring him home in one piece?"  
  
"Yes," Zayn laughs.  
  
"Good to hear," Niall claps his shoulder before heading towards the living room, where an Xbox unpauses by one of Harry's other roommates Andrew, who he also saw yesterday. "I put extra lube and condoms in his bedside drawer. You can thank me later."  
  
Zayn's neck flushes as Niall laughs his way out of the room for good, leaving Zayn alone at the bottom of the stairs. Harry comes stomping down only a few seconds later, looking so fucking delicious, Zayn wonders if they should even go to dinner. He has on his nicer black jeans, thick black boots, and a fitted grey sweater. It's a little wide at the shoulders, the white tshirt peaking out slightly, his hair perfectly long and curled, brushing his neck.  
  
He smiles at Zayn in greeting and immediately falls against him.  
  
Zayn kisses him, even though he promised he'd treat this as a real first date. Harry opens his mouth and lets him in, so maybe he couldn't help it either.  
  
"Happy birthday," Zayn kisses him a final time, smiling into it.  
  
Harry still doesn't say anything, just squeezes at Zayn's hips.  
  
They go to Harry's favorite restaurant, a small little Greek place not far from campus and his house, where he says he tried baklava for the first time. Zayn's never had it and indulges Harry, let's him swirl the pastry on a fork with extra honey and feed it to him. It's stupid really, but it also reminds him of something his dad does for his mom: let's her be sweet even when he finds it to be ridiculous. It warms Zayn's stomach so much, feeling like Yaser in that moment, he reaches under the table to hold Harry's hand.  
  
They're the last ones in the restaurant, the night a little too chilly and still, the streets outside the restaurant almost clear. It had started to snow earlier, just a light dusting, and Zayn watches Harry watch it fall, the candle on their table sending a shadow across his face.  
  
"I got you a present," Zayn offers, reaching for the bag he carried in behind his back earlier.  
  
"You didn't have to," Harry rolls his eyes.  
  
"I know."  
  
"But let's see it then," Harry says with a smirk.  
  
Zayn's never had much of an eye for wrapping presents, so he hands the blue gift bag over, timidly. Harry rushes to pull the tissue paper out, grasping inside it, fingers finally pulling out the picture frame.  
  
It took some planning, but Zayn thinks it worked out in the end, now that he can see Harry's face. Harry's eyes dart across the glass, the black and white picture standing out stark in the simple black frame. Zayn sees his chin shake slightly, his eyes watering.  
  
It's all of them, every person Harry holds dear, the ones he's told Zayn about. His parents and Gemma. Louis. Niall and his three other roommates, his best friend from high school, his closest cousin. It's a big pile of people, clutching each other, laughing at something Louis said, to "make us look good!"  
  
Zayn had to call them all, asked them to meet at the studio the day before, and luckily everyone could make it. Zayn was nervous to meet them all, but Louis introduced him, made it easy for him to feel included in Harry's group of people. Gemma even brought him over to Harry's parents and said to get used to him because he'd probably "be around for awhile." Zayn blushed, the thought of years of this, of him and Harry, and it was exhilarating.  
  
There was no plan for the shoot, no motif or structure, no posing. It's simple, the photo Zayn ended up choosing for the frame: it's just Anne with her hand in Robin's, Gemma with with tears in her eyes from laughter, her fingers as bunny ears above Andrew's head, Louis on Niall's back. It's a picture full of joy, bursting with affection, eyes on the camera, on Zayn.  
  
Harry stares at it for so long, Zayn wonders what he's thinking. He almost asks, until Harry looks up at him.  
  
"I love it," he whispers, emotional.

Zayn doesn't have to blink twice, not to think of the words, or wonder if he should say them. He doesn't blink at all.  
  
"I love you."  
  
Harry almost drops the frame, he needs his hands on Zayn. He pulls his face close and they kiss until the owners, the Sgourakis cousins, clear their throats with laughter.

  
»»»

  
It's much too crazed and rushed, as they come through the front door of Harry's house, mouths hot and insistent against each other, hands in hair, holding on. Zayn pushes Harry through it, after the quick drive back, the both of them stumbling towards the stair case, frantic.  
  
"Well, the boyfriends are back," Niall yells out through the house, from somewhere in the kitchen.  
  
They hear a thump from an upstairs bedroom, one of the other boys clearly alerting everyone of their impending trek up the stairs. Harry grabs Zayn's dick through his jeans and Zayn almost hisses at him, it feels so good. He pushes Harry harder, needing him up and in his bedroom in the next thirty seconds.  
  
But Harry peels back, hands on Zayn's chest before they reach the landing, staring at him.  
  
"Boyfriend, right?" Zayn shrugs, smiling.  
  
"Fucking _finally,"_ Harry grabs his hand, practically running to his room. "Best birthday ever!"  
  
They fly in and shut the door, Harry flipping the lock to keep the idiots he lives with out, the two of them smiling like idiots. The room, lit only by the string of Christmas lights Harry still has up, is quiet. It seems to dawn on them at the same time, the fact that Zayn said he loved Harry, the fact that it's official.  
  
Zayn can't help it, the way his face tightens, the blinking he does when he's nervous. Harry steps to him slower, now that they're alone, now that it's time.  
  
"I love you too, you know," Harry holds his face. "Since I didn't say it earlier. I really fucking love you."  
  
"I know."  
  
Harry bites his smile back.  
  
Zayn gets brave then, knows it's time for him to really do it, set the tone for this night, what they'll do, what he can offer. He'll take whatever Harry wants to give him.  
  
"H?"  
  
He grabs Harry's hands off his face and settles them back on his ass instead. Harry watches him, sees him directing his hands, before looking up into his eyes.  
  
"Yeah."  
  
Music starts playing somewhere downstairs, "As Long As You Love Me" by the Backstreet Boys. Harry holds a finger up to pause them, before walking to the door, to scream down at Niall to shut the fuck up. Zayn uses the break to jump up and down twice, to get his blood flowing, to square up.  
  
Harry comes back to him, smiling, hands back on his ass where Zayn placed them.  
  
"Where were we," he kisses Zayn, moving to his jaw.  
  
"Harry."  
  
Harry stops, nervous, to stare.  
  
Zayn blinks twice. He's brave now. _I am bigger and better than ever._  
  
"I want you to fuck me," he nods, sure of himself.  
  
Harry sputters slightly, blinking twice himself now, gripping Zayn's ass just a little harder.  
  
"But I thought… Are you sure you don't want to, like… You can do me. First time and all," his cheeks redden, his eyes darken.  
  
Zayn's never felt like more of a virgin in his entire life, in that moment, as Harry's fingers dig into his jeans. His lungs expand too quickly as it dawns on them both that it's what they both want, right now, together, for Zayn's first time. His face must give it away, his anxiety and nerves. He can't help but wonder if he'll be good at it. If it'll hurt.  
  
Harry must be able to read him perfectly at this point, because he pulls Zayn closer, into a hug to speak into his neck.  
  
"You'll be the best," he licks at Zayn's skin, already slightly sweaty. "And I'd never hurt you."  
  
"I know."  
  
Zayn exhales, as Harry pulls back to kiss him again. They take another beat to stare, to blink, before Zayn reaches for his jacket and slowly peels it off. Harry watches, grabbing for his sweater. They go slow with it, undressing each other, fingers on zippers. They've been getting naked for weeks, night after night, but it's different now. More reverent. Harry slips his fingers into his briefs and suddenly, they're off and gone, tossed somewhere, and he's naked. Zayn lets himself look, lets his eyes wander, from Harry's awkward bare feet, up his lean legs, his dick already hard, the V line Zayn wants to lick, his stomach and chest, his neck. Harry has his head tilted to the side as he sees Zayn see him.  
  
Zayn needs to join him, he feels like he's burning up from the energy in the room, the heat of Harry's skin. He pulls at his undershirt first, throwing it to the floor, his nipples hardening already. He blushes, but keeps going, kicking his briefs with his foot before he gets tangles and falls over.  
  
Harry runs a finger, just one, down Zayn's side, over the bumps of his ribcage, across skin and bone, until he reaches the hair at the top of Zayn's thighs. He really does need to touch things, needs to explore with his fingers, just like he proved to Zayn all those months ago when he reached for his pictures. Zayn lets him, watches, goosebumps erupting down his arms. His cock fattens up even more, slick where it rests against his thigh.  
  
"You wanna get yourself ready?" Harry whispers, stepping closer, their cocks slotting together. "Or do you want me to?"  
  
Zayn lets out a shaky breath, already too riled.  
  
"You, please."  
  
"Okay, babe," Harry chuckles. "So polite."  
  
Harry lays him down in the middle of his bed, on top of the comforter, the Christmas lights making them glow. Zayn thinks he should contribute, should reach for the drawer for lube and condoms. He bites his lip and actually reaches a hand out, before Harry pins it to the bed, not too hard. Just keeping him still.  
  
Harry takes his time. He kisses Zayn, not too sloppy or harsh, not yet, just licks his way into Zayn's mouth, until they're raw with it. He runs his hands through Zayn's hair, licks at his ear, across the stubble on his jaw, down his clavicle. He kisses between Zayn's collar bones, his lips red and wet, and Zayn's pretty sure he'll get that branded on him some day, Harry's mouth. Right there. He grabs at Harry's hair, the long curls sliding between his fingers.  
  
Suddenly, seemingly out of nowhere, Harry's between his legs entirely, having slid down his chest. His lips run across Zayn's chest, taking his nipples between his teeth, just a taste, which has Zayn's hips snapping up. He's so hard, so fucked out already, he feels lost and found, like he's floating away and tied up too tight all at once.  
  
He's in Harry's mouth seconds later, down to the hilt like it's nothing, and the suction is too good. Too much.  
  
"Haz," he whines, slapping at Harry's head.  
  
"You good?" Harry props himself on his elbows, face concerned.  
  
"I don't… I just… I want to last," Zayn huffs, hands in his own hair now.  
  
"You will," Harry nods, very sure of himself, as he takes Zayn back in his mouth.  
  
Zayn's hips snap up again as his eyes slide closed. He thinks about puppies, the way his ankle looked when he broke it that one summer, all twisted and odd-angled, the order of the monuments in Washington D.C. But it's no use, Harry speeds up, Zayn can feel the head of his cock bumping down Harry's throat and he gasps, his stomach tenses. It's happening too fast.  
  
He's about to yell out, when Harry lets him out of his mouth with a ridiculous slurping sound.  
  
Zayn wipes at the sweat on his forehead, his feet curling, as he tries to settle down. With his eyes closed, he can feel Harry moving around him, fumbling in a drawer, the cap of lube clicking open.  
  
"Zayn," Harry bites his thigh, as Zayn spreads his legs.  
  
"Hmmm," Zayn replies, sort of, eyes still closed.  
  
"I want you to watch me."  
  
"I can't."  
  
"Please?"  
  
Zayn would never keep Harry waiting, or wondering, so his eyes slide open. At this angle, with the pillows behind him, he could feasibly watch Harry all night, if his cock would just do him a fucking solid, for once.  
  
"I have to go slow," Harry nods, talking him through it. "Really slow."  
  
"Okay."  
  
"You might hate me for it."  
  
"I won't."  
  
"You might. So just trust me, yeah? And if you come, just let go, babe. S'alright," Harry licks his lips, hand rubbing Zayn's thigh.  
  
Zayn nods. He'll last, he'll make sure of it.  
  
It's not a totally foreign feeling, the finger Harry slowly eases into his ass. Zayn's tried, a few times, to finger himself, to see how it felt. It must be different when it's yourself doing it though, because those times, it just felt… full. He felt like his body could take it, but just didn't particularly _need_ to.  
  
Harry goes just as slow as he said he would, at a glacial pace. Zayn lets him in, tries to relax as best he can, fingers either in his own hair, or scratching at the headboard. It's wet, the lube everywhere, down Harry's wrist, over his ass, and it's… it's a lot.  
  
"You okay?"  
  
"Hmmm."  
  
It's a stretch. It's that full feeling. But there's something there, something he can't place, something that makes him want more. It doesn't even feel good, just feels… like it's not right yet.  
  
"Another," he bites his lip, eyes on Harry like he said he would.  
  
Harry blows the air from his mouth, probably aching with it himself, and slowly slides in a second finger.  
  
It's a stretch. It's that full feeling. It's like his rim, his entire lower half, doesn't know what to do with it. He feels his feet kick out, his brain unsure, his face screwed up. But it's right there, it's like he's being pulled apart by two opposing forces, one that wants it and one that rejects the whole thing.  
  
"It's okay," Harry mumbles against his leg. "S'normal. Relax into it, babe. Push at me."  
  
Zayn doesn't know how that could help, but he does. He bears down slightly, pushing at Harry's fingers, and suddenly his body must understand. His rim, the entrance no one's ever touched, relaxes and Harry pushes his fingers in just that much more.  
  
It feels good. It feels right. Zayn grunts as he pushes down again, testing the waters further, urging Harry on. Harry twists his wrist, so achingly slow, Zayn almost has to look away from the concentration lining his face. Harry widens his fingers by a millimeter, stretching him, and Zayn curses. It's so fucking good. It's a stretch, so full, and he wants more. He wants all of it.  
  
Harry curls his fingers up, does the _come hither_ motion Zayn's read about on his phone, when everyone had been asleep years ago, and it's like a white flash bursts in front of his eyes. It's like a white out snow storm, no headlights to guide him, as his entire body surges forward and up, towards Harry, off the bed.  
  
"Fuck," he cries, hands holding the headboard, knuckles white.  
  
"There it is," Harry smiles into his stomach, next to his belly button. "We got you there."  
  
"What… I just… Can you just…" Zayn babbles, head rocking back and forth.  
  
Harry does it again. And again. And again. Zayn starts to lose feeling in his extremities, or maybe it's like his muscles recognize the high of it, as they numb and sizzle, like all his limbs are asleep, that prickling feeling, but better. Zayn thrashes, he can't help it, almost kicks at Harry, until he realizes he can rest his feet on Harry's lower back, right above his ass. He pushes at Harry's skin with his toes, bears down further.  
  
"I'm… I think…"  
  
Harry kisses his stomach, moves down slightly to lick a stripe up his cock, slowly, and Zayn's senses leave him entirely. He's not sure if he has the sense of hearing, the blood rushing in his ears, or if he can feel anything anymore, if he has finger prints or working hands or a vocabulary.  
  
Harry eases his fingers out, leaving Zayn feeling empty, like a piece is missing, like he's left something somewhere and can't remember where to look. He looks at Harry, sees the crazed expression on his face, the way he's sweating just as much as Zayn. He crawls up Zayn's body, settles across him, dribbling across Zayn's stomach, breath heaving in Zayn's ear.  
  
"Babe, now I… now I'm nervous I won't last. I want… I want it to be good for you, and I just…"  
  
Zayn shushes him, his hands working again, as he grips Harry's hair and kisses his temple.  
  
"This is perfect so far," he huffs a laugh, voice gone, hoarse. "This is perfect."  
  
Harry just nods, face still hidden in Zayn's neck.  
  
Zayn can't help it, can't stop now that he's this brave.  
  
"Fuck me," he whispers, tongue on Harry's ear.  
  
Harry scrambles  up and off Zayn, to look down at him. He surges forward and shoves his tongue in Zayn's mouth, nodding.  
  
He's fast with it then, finally giving in the rush he feels, as Zayn spreads his legs as far as they'll go, eyes on Harry. He's a virgin, sure, but he knows how to rile Harry, how to get him there. He can tease. So he reaches for his cock and tugs on it a few times as Harry opens the condom with his teeth. Harry almost stops to watch, his movements stilling slightly as he watches Zayn jerk himself off. He has to close his eyes and shake his head, to focus, as he slides the condom on.  
  
Zayn slicks him up, wants to feel the lube on his own fingers now, sliding it up and down Harry. Getting him ready. Giving them both a second.  
  
Harry leans over him, forearms on either side of Zayn's ears.  
  
"Still have to go slow," he nods, almost like he's in pain. "If we go too fast, you'll hurt for days."  
  
Zayn nods.  
  
"Don't let me go too fast."  
  
Zayn nods.  
  
"I'm serious, Zayn. I can't… I won't go too fast, I swear. If you want to stop, tell me."  
  
Zayn nods.  
  
"Just relax," Harry whispers, shutting his mouth finally.  
  
He guides his cock to Zayn's entrance, still wet and fluttering from his fingers, easing into him. Zayn hisses, it's too big, it's not fingers, it's real and right there, Harry. They'll never come back from this, ever. As a person, as a human being, this is it.  
  
"S'okay," he grunts, when Harry seems to be stalling.  
  
Harry shifts his legs slightly and pushes in slowly, the head of his cock breaching Zayn's rim. Zayn sees stars, grateful that Harry's face is back on his neck so he won't see the pain on his face. It's just another fullness he'll get used to, his body hating it and craving it all once. He remembers what Harry said, to bear down, to relax, so he tries both. And suddenly, the head of his cock is inside Zayn, all the way in, and Harry whines.  
  
"Zayn," he groans, teeth on Zayn's neck.  
  
Zayn grips the hair on the back of his head, not able to speak yet, too focused on letting him in. But it spurs Harry to keep going, to help him work through it.  
  
It's slick and wet and hot, the way their bodies connect, the animalistic need right there, to push at each other and go further. Faster. Zayn wants to keep going, won't give in to the pain, so he lifts his legs and locks them around Harry's waist. Harry slips in another inch, and Zayn gasps. It's like fireworks go off above the bed, another burst of light.  
  
"Are you okay? Say it," Harry muffles against his skin.  
  
"I'm okay, we're okay," Zayn nods, clenching his eyes shut, pulling Harry closer.  
  
Another inch.  
  
"You feel so fucking… I swear to God…" Harry babbles.  
  
"Want you," Zayn says into his hair, the pain starting to leave, ebbing and flowing with the stretch, the pleasure just on the cusp of possibility. It's right there, they just need to keep going, to jump off the cliff into the water.  
  
"Wanted you since the first day," Harry slides in further, the both of them grunting together. "You stood up and I turned, and there you were. That was it."  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"You're so fucking beautiful. Couldn't believe it."  
  
"I knew I wanted you," Zayn winces, the pain overpowering for a beat, before sliding back towards _good good good,_ "when you bent over that first time and I saw your hipster ass with a hole in your jeans."  
  
Harry laughs then, an actual squawk, like he does when he can't hold it in, and it makes Zayn smile. They laugh together in that moment, and maybe it's what they needed, because Harry slides in further and suddenly Zayn can feel their bodies touching, completely.  
  
It's like their pieces fit, all of them, the anxious bits, the parts of Harry that get just as insecure as Zayn, their bread crumbs and similarities and differences, they all work. Harry kisses his neck, as they settle, as Zayn pulls them closer, his feet crossing.  
  
He tugs Harry's hair. _Move._  
  
It's just a rocking motion, a flow to Harry's movements. It's not fucking or pounding, there's no skin slapping like in porn, no grunts or talking. It's like they're in a pool on a boat deck, back and forth. Zayn's back arches into it, his cock straining, ready, now.  
  
Harry brings his hand between them, thumb and forefinger sliding the pre come down Zayn's length, and Zayn's eyes cross. It's probably too soon, says the voice in the back of his head, that if he's not Harry's first, he wants to be his best. But it's building, the hook in his navel tugging hard and fast.  
  
"I'm…"  
  
"Come," Harry leans up to look at him, nodding. "Show me. Want you to come first."  
  
Zayn nods, biting his lip. Harry leans down to bite it for him instead.  
  
Harry stills his hips slightly, just for a moment, before pulling out half way and sliding back in. Once. Twice. Until he slides almost all the way out and shoves his hips forward, Zayn's entire body curling into itself.  
  
And then he's coming, his feet dig into Harry's ass, stripes of white coating Harry's hand, his own chest, even on his arm, like a flag blowing in the wind, like an organized chaos going in the same direction but all over the place. It doesn't make sense, Zayn can't collect any thought, it's a white flash again.  
  
"So good," Harry whispers, milking him through it, squeezing Zayn's cock for a last drop.  
  
"Hnngg," Zayn tries to speak, his mouth slack.  
  
Harry lets his cock go and leans in to kiss him, but ends up breathing against his mouth, as he rocks forward just twice more, before he's coming. Zayn scratches Harry's back, it's so much, the come down and the feeling of Harry still inside him, the heat of come pooling in the condom.  
  
Harry heaves a few breaths, like he's about to hyperventilate and get sick, before slowly sliding out of Zayn. His fingers slowly go to the condom to hold it, to contain the mess. Zayn's so proud of him, for being able to tie it off, for cleaning up. If he knew how to speak English, he'd say so. He swears it. But as it is, his right hand just flops to his side, fingers moving slightly. Harry settles back on the bed and grabs for it, kisses his palm twice, before settling next to Zayn, curled against him and wrapping Zayn's arm around himself.  
  
All Zayn can do is turn his head, to rest his lips in Harry's hair.  
  
He feels empty and satiated, warm and content, a little sore, used to the point of exhaustion, but so fucking good.  
  
"You know what I think?" Zayn says eventually, as his eyes start to close of their own accord.  
  
"Hmmm?"  
  
Harry tugs the blanket up and over them, pulling it towards his chin on Zayn's chest.  
  
"Lou will be so glad we didn't do this in the dorm. Jizz for days," Zayn smiles.  
  
Harry squawks again. Big and loud, lips dry on Zayn's skin.  
  
"Best birthday ever," Harry sighs.  
  
Zayn can't help but smile, as Harry drops off to sleep. He feels like Zayn Malik at the moment, not the old version or even the new version. Just… him. No anxiety, no worries. Harry's on his chest and he really can't be bothered with much else. He'll be fine because Harry told him he would be. And Harry will be fine, because Zayn will make sure of it, forever if Harry will have him. If Harry needs him, needs his assurance, needs to be craved, Zayn will. Maybe from now on, they'll make their plans together.

Zayn smiles wider.  
  
It all worked out.  
  
It's not until Zayn's almost completely under, as his brain shuts down for sleep, that he notices it. When Harry got up to toss the condom, when he got the towel to clean them off, he turned a fan on. A small one, over in the corner by his desk, the box it came in still open and on the floor.  
  
Zayn pulls him closer.

  
»»»

  
Zayn Malik had a plan for college. And he would've followed through with it, you should know that for sure. He could've gotten through those four years just fine, with maybe a few friends close by, peers in his classes, colleagues in the photography studio.  
  
He had a plan and it would've worked with or without Harry Styles.  
  
But some of the best plans, like the ones that end up changing the world, well… they always work a little better with some help. With a catalyst to light the fuse. They discovered it that first year together, that they work best with plans.  
  
Harry bought Zayn a new camera the next year for his birthday. The plan was for Zayn to travel Europe, taking pictures of architecture and locals, which he did.  
  
Zayn bought Harry books of sheet music the same year, pages upon pages with Harry's name scribed at the top, to write songs about him, about them, which he did.  
  
And two years after that, when Zayn pulled out a ring, when Harry's eyes widened, when Zayn explained the new plan, to start a life together… that ended up being the best plan of all.

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Come talk to me!  
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